I sent my husband a photo of my wet pussy, dropping with another man’s cum. Embracing My Inner Hotwife Slut (Part 2) — I waited for the message to be delivered. I waited for the message to be seen. He didn’t respond. His mind was probably on profit and loss statements, general ledger codes, and other financial crap I didn’t need or want to know about. He loved me enough to encourage me…

If my husband didn’t have time to satisfy me, then I owed it to myself to get my inner slut on. — “Who are you getting slutted up for?” My husband asked, arriving home from work just as my cab pulled up out the front of our apartment. “Whoever wants me.” My answer wasn’t meant to sound cruel. But I’d promised to never lie. “The quarterly report will be done by tomorrow…

We shouldn’t, but I came when he called. — Once was a mistake. Twice had been an accident. But when I parked my car next to his and drank in his silhouetted body at the deserted oval, it felt like the start of a relationship. I was in love with someone else. For years, I’d been totally and completely…

He was online, but was he alone? Did I care? — Three months apart had been three months of hell. I couldn't remember the taste of his lips or the feel of his cock sliding inside, pulsating as he groaned to a release. Yes, we could order the same meals and eat them together; separated by miles but brought together by…

I’m not that kind of girl, but I could be. Truthfully, sex with my ex hadn’t been worth the six-month wait. But he updated his status to single, and it’s time for me to move on. “I haven’t seen you here before.” Hot as fuck guy had been checking me…

If I didn’t get a lunchtime hookup with my sexy bull, there would be hell to pay. — My day had gone to shit. I’d broken a heel, my computer lost the latest status report and the coffee shop screwed with my order. Usually, my husband set up dates with my bull, but I couldn’t wait. Me: Park avenue hotel. Noon. Room is in my name. As soon…

I knew he wasn’t my boyfriend. His body was the same, but his eyes were a softer shade of blue. But if he wanted to get down on one knee and offer me a ring, who was I to call him out? I didn’t give him time to react, dragging…

I needed to angry-fuck my ex out of my head, and any man in the cheapest bar in town would do. “Looking for a good time, sweetheart?” He was mid-thirties, with rough stubble and dead eyes. “More like a revenge fuck with someone who doesn’t ask questions.” My bare ass…

While I have breath, there is the opportunity to fight back — I don’t talk about my childhood. Or my exes. Sure, I give the highlights, the snippets that people can digest and accept. Anything that might challenge the myth my family built around love and support, is set aside. And let’s not talk about the man who looked to be perfect…