10½ Reasons: Megan / A Hotwife in Taiwan

This is a completed short I wrote for the #ACHE Medium publication that comes out tomorrow.

A gang of hotwife and cuckold authors formed a publication on Medium. We publish there every day: https://medium.com/authors-of-cuckold-and-hotwife-erotica

I aim to add to this publication whenever I'm able, and I'll feature the same bull so all the stories will form an anthology at some point that'll be available in the stores. The shorts will be here on Patreon as well as the Medium.

King Room in the luxury Shangri-La, Taipei, twenty-fifth floor. View out the window shows the nighttime dreamscape of the Bo’Ai Special Zone and the Tamsui River. It looks like a sci-fi movie. Megan’s not Taiwanese, she’s a Brit, a rich housewife from outside London. She’s a few years shy of thirty; flawless skin, a tan she must get from vacations, Spain or Portugal, I’d bet; big expressive eyes, blue the shade of the cold Atlantic. Her body’s fantastic. She’s not a big woman, not tall; no, she’s a waif, with the build of a nineties supermodel everyone worried was anorexic. Only this girl’s too healthy looking to be subsisting on lettuce, brown rice, and heroin. Megan goes to the gym and watches what she eats and stays hydrated with reverse osmosis water. Her hair is the color of buckwheat honey, with wheaten highlights. It’s lank and heavy and smells like coconut oil.

Those big blue eyes watch me with lurid confidence, but it’s an act. She’s shaking like a leaf.

Matthew’s her husband. Wealthy, but I don’t know how. Here in Taiwan on business, like me, the three of us hooking up through a swinging website. Matthew wants to watch. Matthew likes to watch. At least he thinks so. This is his first time. Their first time. I wonder whose idea it was. Did Megan want this first? Probably not. She’s timid behind her confident mask, and Matthew is the picture of eagerness, rubbing his thighs, sitting in the corner by the picture window, Taipei’s city lights sparkling behind him while he lounges in an upholstered chair, wearing a suit, choosing some measure of authority over comfort. But there is no specific uniform for watching your beautiful young wife have sex with another man.

Megan’s dressed for sex. Matthew wore a suit to present to me his wife, ushering me into the bedroom of their five-hundred dollar a night suite, but Megan’s in a burgundy satin negligee and high heels. Presenting her. Offering her. I’m in a suit, too. No tie. But I came from a business meeting that ended up in the Night Market, the Marco Polo, over in the Da’an District. I smell like cigarettes and kaoliang. Megan smells like Lost Cherry.

I tell her how beautiful she is, and she nods, biting on her lower lip. Matthew says I don’t know how lucky I am, and I’m still looking at Megan and I say I can see how lucky I am. I smile and meet Megan’s eyes. It’s dumb and too ingratiating, but I get what I want from it: Megan smirks. It’s got to be hard for her in this moment. You’d have to be a brave warrior to come to this point. And she must love Matthew. Love makes you do crazy things.

I say, “I’m going to put my hand on your chest.”

It’s not what Megan expects, not what she thought my first move would be, but then I rest my palm flat, below her clavicle. “Your heart is really racing.”

She chuckles and nods, and I say, “Do you want to have a seat?”

“Yeah.”

But as she turns to take the few steps to the foot of the bed, I stop her. Before she can turn I’m at her back, close enough to touch her. She stops, and I can see her upper arms turn to goose flesh. Her face quarter-turns my way, eyes downturned, and shows the upturned slant of her nose; she has a perfect profile. In this moment I know I can get away with anything. I can see it in her posture, the tilt of her neck. She may be timid under that manufactured confidence, but her fast-beating heart is pumping lust. Megan is submissive. Megan is compliant.

I trace the negligee from her shoulder. She’s trembling. The material pools around her heels on the oyster rug. I turn her around to face me again, and she looks horrified in this moment where by virtue of rote mechanics she believes I will kiss her. But Matthew has rules, and no kissing was one of them. I would hate to tell him Megan wants to kiss me. It’s how she makes love. She’s passionate. I bet she likes to be consumed in lovemaking.

Instead of kissing her I use two hands on her slender shoulders to seat her pert bottom on the foot of the bed. When she sits, she arches her back, cranes her neck up to look at my next instruction. Her poise is graceful, elaborate; a woman who wants a man to fuck her. Wants a man to possess her.

Her eagerness stirs my masculine spirit, charms my snake, races my own heart. This man’s wife is turning me on.

I say, “I can read those dirty thoughts right through your beautiful eyes.” Megan smiles, and now we have a connection. She doesn’t break eye contact. She’s unashamed of her dirty thoughts.

Tonight there’s going to be no passion, no foreplay, no hot and heavy petting, no making out. No warming up.

Megan’s hands go to my waistband, tugging my dress shirt free, then unbuttoning it, eyes on mine the whole while, her expression intent. I shrug off my jacket, and begin unbuttoning my shirt from the collar. We meet above the middle. She’s quicker than I am. With my shirt open her hands go straight to my midsection, smoothing her palms on my hard muscle.

Now we’re moving and both our breaths are coming quicker. Hands on those delicate shoulders again, I guide her to lay back on the bed, my mouth on her neck and collar. Her hands are on my shoulders. She loves my body. I pack a lot more muscle than her husband.

She’s underneath me and I’m straddling her thighs. She’s doing that feminine thing where she’s got one knee higher than the other, protecting that most sacred female space. But penetrating that space—dominating it—is the only reason I’m here tonight. She knows it and I know it. Matthew knows it, too. He’s the one who arranged it.

We come close to kissing again and there’s something about Megan that makes me wish there were no restrictions tonight. I bet she would be a tiger if I kissed her. If Matthew allowed me to undo her bra and suck her nipples. I’m sure she has plump little rosebuds on her meager bosom. But Matthew is possessive in his way and I respect that. No lips, no tits.

Matthew’s wife is in heat. I suspect she’s dreaded this evening approaching but now at the lofty swell of the event’s arrival, her lust is released. Waiting, even waiting with dread, can inflate an arousal to bursting. Her hands roam, touching every part of me, feeling my body, liking it, aroused by it. And at last, her hands have completed the required tasks and congregate to the more lubricious location, slowing at my hips, wandering, acting clumsy and unsure. But soon one of them grows bold, dragging lower, cupping between my legs.

When Megan feels what I’ve got, she huffs breath quicker, my size spiking her arousal into orbit. This is one of the moments I love.

The other moment is watching her face transform when I push myself inside her.

Sometimes a woman’s overwhelmed; or she loves it, or she hates it, or wants it deeper. She might wonder if she can take it. She might tell me to pull it out. Or she tells me she needs it. She utters profanity, she cries or whimpers. Maybe she smiles. I love them all.

* * *

He is more than a decade older than me, and shows all the sexual confidence of a gorgeous and experienced man blessed with what I feel in my hand. His neck smells like expensive aftershave, something like spruce and talc and maybe cloves. His clothing smelled like the streets of this busy city. It’s like he’s worn them all day long. There’s something erotic about not being the primary impetus of his evening. He’s showing me what I am, but it’s like in a respectful way, like he wants me to accept what I am: a married woman who needs to get fucked proper-like, by a man who isn’t her husband, but a man who will do it to her right. A man with a hot body and a giant dick.

It’s respectful because I’m nothing to him. And that’s the way it should be.

The man watching this all unfold from the bedside chair is the man who’s everything to me. My husband. My Matthew. This nameless older gentleman and I are passing ships in the night. We mean nothing to each other than pure physical pleasure.

The thing in my hand is massive. I’m gripping it underhanded over top of his fine gabardine pants. It’s not hard yet, but it’s on its way. My hands come together at his belt and they’re trembling. I unbuckle the belt, then undo his button. His stomach muscles tighten and he stills. He wants to see it revealed as much as I do. I pause and look up into his icy blue eyes. He’s very fucking handsome, and in a rich daddy sort of way, and I hadn’t anticipated how exciting I would find him. I’d expected someone younger, brasher, someone with a lot of arrogant things to say. This man is a fantastic surprise.

His eyes urge me to continue, the lamp light showing a touch of salt in his peppery hair. I unzip him and widen his fly. His enormous penis tumbles out of his pants to lay in a brownish heap on my bare stomach. It’s warm and it’s heavy. This is the most erotic moment of my life. The man’s a stranger to me, though he’s my sexual partner, and I owe all of this to my watching husband. Something dark and twisty happens deep in my core, low down, in my sexual viscera. I want this man. I was turned on before, but now I’m ravenous. I want this man to fuck me hard and deep with this enormous cock while Matthew watches, my commitment to my husband’s insane request fulfilled and fortified.

His cock looks out of place on my flat and tanned stomach. I’m smooth and feminine, his cock is bloated and veiny virility. It’s growing, angling upright on my fevered flesh, the ridge of his huge cock head rippling under the foreskin as it begins to lengthen and thicken. My breaths come short and quick, and my hands roam his hard and muscular torso, building the courage to grip his naked cock.

Now it’s time for my own sexual exposition. He rises, on his knees, his monstrous organ hanging out of his fly, and his hands stroke down to my hips, fingers hooking under the hip-strings of my panties and tugging them lower. My hips sway and dance on the bed, allowing this handsome businessman, this roguish Lothario, to shimmy my panties down my legs to my knees. I raise my knees and let him slide them down to my feet, careful as he’s rounding the points of my heels. But I don’t open my legs again, leaving them together and to the side, He spanks my haunch and I emit a gasp, the bright smack echoing in our bare and modern hotel room.

I crane my neck to spy my husband, upside down, sitting in the shadows, to see how he will take witnessing another man spank his wife. Matthew is grim but wild eyed, riveted by the show before him and not deterred by a man slapping his wife’s ass. With my eyes watching Matthew, I part my legs for this other man, show him my pretty pink flower. Matthew’s eyes narrow with lusty appreciation.

But before I can look down and gauge this other man’s reaction to my most private space, a sweet thrill whooshes through me as the man’s hand strokes over my labia with liquid ease. I’m wetter than I've ever been. A chill touches those exposed parts of me gone slick with sexual lubrication, and I mewl. The sound is strange and unexpected and I slap a hand over my mouth. My hips gyrate of their own accord.

I want to suck his cock. I want to pleasure him and explore his body, but Matthew has demands and I’ll fulfill them. Matthew cherishes my mouth. I’m not to kiss this man. I’m not to suck his cock or his balls. Matthew wants incisive depravity; he seeks simplicity.

The older man works backward off the bed, steps out of his shoes and suit pants. That huge cock is stiff now, not swinging but wagging, hanging down, and from this angle it looks near his knees. It is so thick I’m not sure I can go through with this. I’d find it grotesque even, if the man from which it sprouted wasn’t so handsome, wasn’t so sexy.

He has a condom packet. It must have come from his pants pocket, and I’m impressed by his sleight of hand. Packet torn open, he works the greasy rubber onto his beefy member while I still hump the air and gasp for breath. I can’t remember a time where I’ve wanted a man to rut me more than I feel that dreadful tow right now. My own fingers tug and play with my pussy and I don’t recall instructing my hand to do so. He can’t return to me fast enough.

And when he does, I’m ready for him. Hands on my hips he scoots me closer to his spread out thighs, and I don’t know what to do with my legs, but I like how they look this way and I’m glad I still wear my heels.

“Look how wet you are,” he mumbles, eyes down and direct between my legs. Heat blushes my cheeks like I’m a timid girl ashamed of her own arousal instead of the scandalous woman I know I am.

“We won’t even need lube.”

His voice is gravelly and without a recognizable accent. Matthew said he was American. His jaw is wide and firm, his neck thick; he ripples with muscle, but it’s not gym-worked vanity. He is a mystery and I paint my own picture: a former military man who works now as as a contractor; for oil companies, tech companies, or wherever his expertise might find ore. He has no private life because he travels too much. No family, no wife. Maybe he’s divorced. He likes to share his physical gifts with those who would appreciate them, yet wants no entanglements. I’m a sexy fuck to him. I’m perfect, he’s perfect.

He puts his cock on my tummy, and I imagine he enjoys seeing where it will go inside me. I’m small, and his penis reaches my navel. I whisper, “We don’t need lube?”

He just shakes his head no, brings the end of his cock down between my legs, rubs the oversized head in swirls over my clitoris. My heart races with the surprise of it. He does this a while, teasing me, making me think he’s going to put it in me, but then teasing me more. My hips pump with frustration, my hands grab bedding and pull. I need his cock so bad right now. I’d thought I’d be more reluctant when the time came, but here I am going out of my mind with hot sticky desire.

At last he wedges the large blunted end into my creases in a manner that tells me this time the teasing is over. Just the feel of his tip pushing against my aperture alarms me. I know he’s too big. I’ve never had a man with a big cock before—not this big.

The pressure is enormous at first and I whimper, hating I’ll have to renege on Matthew’s fantasy. But the discomfort passes. The man is slow and careful, making sure all of his shaft is coated with my wet, mingling with the condom’s meager lubrication in a way that produces a slippery luster. The moments where I think he’s too big come and go, and each time they pass, there is newfound pleasure in the wake. His size is unreal, stretching me like I couldn’t imagine, pushing out my inner core, distending all my inner folds and revealing new pink lands of untouched pleasure. I’m vibrant and humming. My pussy is enlivened. I love his bog cock. It sinks deeper, unfurling hidden pleasure points no man has ever touched.

I release an honest warbled cry. How much I love such an oversized cock surprises me. I thought I would suffer, but instead I’m reveling. I’m panting and moaning and my forehead heats a layer of sweat. I babble how good he feels and I know Matthew thinks I’m playing it up for him, reading lines I’ll think he wants to hear for his fantasy. Truth is no one has ever dominated me like this before. His cock owns me. My pussy submits to it, clings to it for dear life. Every slip and slide, every pull every push, sends a lightning bolt to some intracranial erotic lighting conductor. I let more cries loose, pepper them with whimpers, rolling my head around on the bed and grabbing the older man’s arms.

Now I’m gushing wet. There’s no pain, no discomfort. Only pure distended pleasure pooling in radiant waves as his cock thrusts in and out of me in slow and steady lines. My membranes clutch on his girth, cool air soughing against the pinkest parts of my interior as they are drawn out of my body by his size. I clutch my legs around his thighs, squeeze my knees together, and with that comes the first orgasmic salutation, some part of my lighting conductor communicating with my core, agreeing on a time and place when my whole being will shudder with electric rapture. I can’t wait to come on this huge cock for Matthew.

* * *

The man I organized for Megan works her like a limber instrument. Brings things out of Megan I didn’t know were there. One of the more exciting concepts is how my wife responds to him with some hidden understanding: if he lifts Megan’s ankle, she suspects what he intends and rolls to get on all fours. This is something she doesn’t do in our own lovemaking. Most often positional changes are communicated via oral requests phrased in mannerly vocatives, like Honey, would you like to... The man makes no requests, and Megan shows no offense at the lack. It’s her knowledge, her anticipation of what he wants that’s most driving me wild. How does she know he wants her like a dog, or on her tummy, or to put her beautiful legs up so her knees almost touch her cheeks? It’s like she knows this kind of athletic, performative sex exists, and it only required a man like this one to deliver it to her.

I’m hard like never before watching the woman I love with another man. Performing for me. This isn’t our sex. This is their sex. But it’s only my wife who interests me. I love watching her body. I love hearing those agonized sounds as the man pounds her tight little pussy with the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. Megan’s body is shining with sweat. Her limber muscle glistens. It’s almost too much for me to bear. She pants and gasps and moans, lost in outrageous sexual rapture. Her nipples have tightened to small bursting bulbs pressing out the bra’s satiny fabric in shimmering humps.

The man’s stamina far outlasts Megan’s. He’s used to this sort of action, and my wife, while responding to it with sweaty enthusiasm, can’t swim for long in these choppier waters. She’s a rag doll in our bed, an insensible fuck doll with lifeless arms and trembling thighs. Her mouth hangs open. Every movement elicits a sigh of extreme effort.

I know Mega’s orgasms. He’s conjured three I’m sure of. She cries out a certain sound then muffles it by biting her own lips to close off the squeal. He’s fucked her so senseless, I’m not sure what sound she would make now.

Megan goes to the gym three or four times a week. She runs and lifts weights and attends yoga classes. This sort of physical endeavor exceeds her capacity. The man however, is in control. He is alert and stoic, a blacksmith at his forge. His muscles are pumped, his veins risen like cables on his arms. The man is older than me by a decade and his physical ability inspires me.

But now that Megan is a slumbering receptacle for his mighty organ, he positions my wife so she is comfortable: on her back, head on a pillow with her damp and tangled hair spread around her shoulders. Her eyelashes flutter watching him arrange her, and again I’m aware how she comprehends what he is doing. She pouts at him, makes a small encouraging sound in her throat. It’s time for him to finish. She wants him to have his satisfaction like the generous lover I know her to be. What I am witnessing is the greatest sexual gift she could offer me.

The man plops his fat cock onto my wife’s tummy and pussy and strokes it back and forth, getting himself over top of her. Megan gives him room to work, adjusting her legs so they drape over his outrigger thighs. He plants two hands on either side of her, his face over hers and Megan reaches between them, takes his massive penis in two hands and situates that fat condom-covered bulb end into her glistening membranes. He pushes into her again and I marvel at how such a corpulent monster can find entry into such a tight space. I watch Megan’s polished nails dig into the man’s powerful forearms as he goes deeper.

Megan is pinned in place and the man fucks her little pussy with fervor. Megan squeals and moans and bares her teeth. He pounds her, his big, thick pole-arm plunging in and out of my wife’s pussy with mechanical drive. They both pant faster and faster and my wife encourages him to spill his seed with chants of Yes, yes, please, please...

And then the man’s panting turns to growling and rumbling and soon he’s snorting through snarling nostrils as he achieves is peak, thrusting deep into my wife, holding, withdrawing, then plunging deep again. Megan howls with erotic delight, knowing her lover found his pleasure. This man is ejaculating deep inside my wife. He bucks and bucks, eliciting carnal gasps from my wife who now caresses the man’s chest with care, and even touches his face.

The man shakes his head, his neat hair coming out of place, a ragged comber bouncing over his tanned brow. He wipes his cheek on one arm, then raises up, cupping Megan’s face in a final shared moment. Then that hand moves between them and eases his cock out of her pussy in gentle movements. It comes out and falls onto Megan’s tummy, the reservoir tip swollen with his seed. His cock is deflating, a dark colored thing underneath the latex. He pinches the tip of the rubber and removes the condom, ties it in a knot and places it on Megan’s navel. My wife admires it for a moment and I wonder if the obvious volume of his collected semen impresses her. She seems to squeeze more sexual pleasure from his evidence placed on her flesh, writhing on the bed, her legs stroking together. She is so beautiful I can barely stand it. She pays with the condom, her long fingers moving it against her skin.

The man gathers his things and brings them into the bathroom so he can tidy himself. I rush to Megan, put my hands on her. Her flesh is hot and fevered and dampened with sweat. Her eyes are heavy and satisfied. I toss away the mans’s used condom. My cock is throbbing. It’s slippery with my arousal and I can’t wait to get it inside her. I feel like it might go off without any warning.

“Baby, you’re so incredible,” I tell her and she shows me a sleepy smile. The man hasn’t touched her lips and I ache to kiss her. But I want us to be alone.

The man is professional. Out of the bathroom in a minute, dressed and ready to leave and looking none the worse for wear. He doesn’t even address Megan, only looks to me and flicks his chin, saying, “Good evening.”

I can’t answer, only smile and nod. I’m falling apart. I’m overflowing with a dark joy. My hands are trembling.

When I hear the hotel room door close, I’m at my belt and shoving down my pants with frantic need. Megan accepts me, putting out her arms for her husband, and I cling to her naked body still wearing a jacket and tie. My bare, unprotected cock slips into her with ease as she hugs me and I put my lips on hers.