I was relieved to find a parking space behind the building where the minivan wouldn't be recognized from the road. It was also where they kept the hotel's trash dumpsters which I somehow found prescient. Today, I was trash. Dressed in a trashy dress, and beneath it the underwear I had only brought as a dare and had never worn before. I had felt I was operating on automatic all morning, and it was only when I turned off the engine and slipped off the seat belt that I paused long enough to really think about what I was about to do. The underwear was probably a very good place to start; embarrassingly banished to the bottom of my lingerie drawer with its blatant sheerness mocking me every time I came across it. Today though, it was appropriate. Today, my husband had almost begged me to wear it, and there been the surprising thrill of the way it felt against my body, the way the panties clung reassuringly to my hips, the way the widely divided crotch exposed both my cunt and ass in a shockingly unfamiliar way. My choice of panties alone vividly defined who I was; a woman who was about to get fucked. I had mouthed that to myself in the mirror at home in our bedroom as I did my makeup, and then repeated it aloud to make it even more true. "I am a married woman who wants to get fucked." The bra, however, was a different story. Pushing my breasts into something that wasn't me, wasn't my body, but better resembled a model in some cosmetologist's 'after' pics. Ripe, firm, boldly projecting who I was to the world, and daring to be ignored, the bra's sly construction freeing my nipples to push determinedly through my ludicrously thin dress. The lingerie had given me confidence, momentarily banishing thoughts that I might, in some way, disappoint the man I was about to meet. It also betrayed my obvious excitement, the deliberate care and eagerness with which I had dressed for this date. Now, though, as I slipped out of my worn ballet flats and into the high, peep-toed sandals that framed my freshly pedicured toes, I felt my confidence evaporate. I looked wistfully at my comfy shoes now abandoned on the passenger seat. Those were shoes for running chores, doing housework, playing with the kids, where the shoes now on my feet were the shoes of a whore, solely designed for admiring while I was flat on my back, thighs splayed wide, receiving the confident thrusts from a man who was not my husband. I heard myself emit a sighed resignation, and then one last spray of perfume, one last freshening of the lipstick and one quick glance in the rearview mirror to confirm I was already a woman who could be faithful no more.
Leaving the reassuring safety of the family's minivan, I straightened out the hem of my short dress and surveyed the faded rear of the motel to find the room number he had texted me. The trembling feeling in the pit of my stomach had only grown more intense as the day of our meeting neared. Now it was directly at war with the sensation growing between my thighs. I wanted to be confident, striding into his room in my new shoes that had required practice to walk, that gave me the delicious kind of cock-grinding stride that had shocked my husband and delighted me. I understood that I had put all this effort into my appearance because I didn't want to betray the indecision in my head. That I was really going to go through with this, to risk flushing twenty years of marriage down the drain in exchange for what, a brief afternoon of lust? Perhaps some mediocre and awkward motel sex? It was important to me that he didn't see that hesitancy, the insecurity that my mouth wouldn't be inviting enough, or that my ass would be too large, hips too wide, my body not firm enough, and that he only believed that this was something I did all the time, that he was only one of many in a large stable of lovers who I met regularly in this way. That I was that kind of woman. But then I was there, at the door knocking, and when he opened it was with a perfunctory smile of greeting which broadened into something wider, something more appreciative perhaps something hungrier as he drank in my body through the flimsy dress, now obligingly transparent against the outside light.
We had exchanged only so much on the dating app, carefully skirting emotions and concentrating on only the required details, and yet it was enough. Now I was standing in front of him, prepared for a greeting kiss to get it over with, yet when our lips touched I found my mouth open ready for him, ready to be fucked by a man who wasn't my husband. Who didn't have his hang-up's, his baggage, his love or his children, who promised only a cock thick enough, and to be able to last long enough, to give me the selfish pleasure I craved. I hadn't even been kissed like that, no man had pushed his tongue into my mouth like this man did - not even my husband. And with that kiss I suddenly became that woman who wears a pushup bra, crotchless panties and a garter belt under a flimsy dress. Who calls into work with an invented migraine to go to a motel in the middle of the day to get fucked by a perfect stranger. To cuckold my husband, and make him if not responsible, then complicit. Within minutes of coming through the door, and with barely a word said, I had immediately, and without any hesitancy joined a sisterhood of women, tired of their husband's lackluster and premature dribblings, tired of fingering themselves to lonely, desperate orgasms in their bathrooms as their spent husbands snored, replete in their pathetic, hopelessly inadequate victories. The kind of women who cheated on their husbands not for romance but for the kind of sex they knew they deserved. I had become that woman because this man was different. Being fucked by him would be totally different. Ever since we had first started having sex, I had needed to tell my husband what to do, how I wanted it. With this man that wasn't needed. It wasn't required, because he did everything, answered every question before it left my lips, took care of every need. Everything was now easy, natural and satisfying. As his hands explored expertly under the hem of my dress, I felt him checking out my garters, and as he effortlessly found the slutty open crotch in my panties, he found my cunt slick and ready for him. I reached for his pants, almost hypnotized by the bulge in his crotch as I fumbled for his zipper in reciprocation, but he held me by my wrists, firmly moving them away.
"No," he said softly, "I just want you, now."
He wanted me now, was hard from wanting me. I physically felt my cunt clench. After years of coaxing a limp dick into an only slightly less limp one, I wasn't going to refuse a man who wanted to fuck me with that kind of desire, where foreplay would be just an unnecessary preamble to something we both wanted and were both so ready for. He pushed me face against the wall, still holding my wrists above my head and second later, my dress was around my waist and I felt the tip of his cock nuzzle my ass. I heard a gasp escape my lips as the fuck hole of my panties invited him all the way into my famished, slick cunt, and I felt him immediately filling me up with his whole length to his balls. It was so outrageous, so intensely different to anything I had ever experienced before, his cock so hard, so ridged, I thought I was going to climax right there. My body was spasming with the shock and I felt him hold my hips tighter as he withdrew and slid in again, all the way, beginning a delicious onslaught of long, slow thrusts I felt I could barely endure. Of all the things I had imagined driving to the motel, I just hadn't expected this. This incredible intensity, the pent up need he seemed so determined to satisfy, the totally new sensations that were wracking my body. It was like having sex for the first time, only so much better. I wanted to mouth all those things women said on the plentiful porn I had found on my husband's computer.
"Fuck yes, fill me like that -- give me everything," I muttered. It was all appropriate, all exactly what I was thinking, what I was wanting. As it was, he just held me and drove himself into me, my own body betraying me into compliance, anticipating an ecstasy I hadn't imagined possible. He roughly turned me to face him as he opened my dress, the little lacy quarter cup bra proving little resistance as his tongue flicked expertly over one nipple then bit the other as he entered me again.
"Oh God, oh God, please...so good...," I heard myself whimper.
