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Erotic Entanglement
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Our "conversation" wasn't a conversation exactly, just a message between two online acquaintances.
"Ever been to the Red Rooster?" I typed.
Bea replied instantly: "Love it..." as if she'd been waiting to be asked.
In truth, we'd both been circling this moment for months, but with the wrong partners, searching for someone to make it real. Here's how our paths converged with that simple invitation.
Bea's Path...
My divorce unleashed a new version of "me." Like the heroines of the tawdry romance novels I devoured, I found myself chasing risks. After business hours, I would drop my inhibitions, and panties, for Robby, the shift super, allowing him to bend me over his cluttered desk. It was thrilling, until the night footsteps paused outside the frosted glass door. While Robby froze mid-thrust with fear, I shuddered with an orgasm, fueled by an image of who might step through the door and seize my bare hips next. I had never felt such exhilaration. Thank God, the footsteps moved on, but alas, so did I. Someplace where my fantasies wouldn't jeopardize my paycheck.
That was the late '90s, the dawn of dial-up internet and notorious AOL chatrooms. A clunky desktop computer opened endless doors to satiate my new obsession. The anonymity of the screen empowered me to embrace the woman worthy of my home: Las Vegas, Nevada. What might have taken weeks of traditional dating, likely leading nowhere, the internet coalesced to mere hours of risqué chat. "Height?" "Build?" "Carpet match the drapes?" "Safe word?" By the time I agreed to meet in person, we'd already dispensed with pretenses, leaving one question: his place or mine?
Each online conquest emboldened me. Furtive quickies with my boss evolved to intimate unveilings, every part of me gloriously exposed. Not only for a stranger's delight, but my own gratification. Though I'd lost my virtue long ago, every new partner let me revisit that delicious surrender, as if for the very first time, again and again.
Yet those trysts were never enough. My mind inevitably wandered back to my pulp fiction daydreams. In quiet moments, I'd drift into fantasies where many hands pleasured my body, eager mouths shared my breasts, competing to dominate me. Once, when my desires overwhelmed discretion, I teased my lover du jour, "How about you go wake your roomy?" While his cock screamed "YES," his rattled voice asked, "For real?" as if I'd suggested he father my children, instead of doing his buddy a solid. Few men, it turns out, actually have the moxie for such an introduction.
Still, somewhere in this neon desert, I felt a kindred spirit searching for me.
Ken's Path...
The end of my long relationship with Jess came down to one unforgivingly vivid moment: I watched our neighbor's lips press against hers. She tried to respond but recoiled. Turning to me, her eyes welled up. "I can't do this," she cried. "I'm not a whore!" I saw then that she'd only gone along to please me, this was my fantasy, not hers, and we were finished. Three weeks later, I was packing boxes alone. Thirty-four years old, driving to Sin City for a fresh start, with a guilty mix of regret and expectation.
My new job consumed most of my waking hours, but in those rare moments of freedom, my mind wandered to forbidden territory. I discovered online dating, still primitive in the Y2K era, but profiles laid bare people's forbidden intentions. Some women sought commitment, others a one-night stand. I quickly learned which to pursue. These flings did it for me physically, but they weren't enough. Yet I could not quite figure out that next step either. As a Vegas newcomer, I lacked the connections to orchestrate anything beyond conventional hookups.
Then, along came Kaye. Her profile was candid: mid-fifties, wedding band, grown kids, open minded. It took one Tuesday evening of frisky messages to earn me an invite over for "drinks." Breaking from a lingering kiss at her door, I noticed them, family portraits lining the foyer. Notably, a silver-haired gent with his arm, lovingly, around her slim waist.
"Jeez," I muttered, suddenly confronted by evidence of her real life. My break with Jess haunted me, and I had no wish to ruin another's relationship. Catching my double take, Kaye chuckled, "Relax," and pressed irresistibly into me. "John is overseas for a few months," which didn't ease my angst at all.
But when she reached for a small film camera on the coffee table, a mischievous grin flashed across her face. "He loves to see who keeps me company while he's away." Tossing the camera to me, she began to unbutton her dress, eyes never leaving mine. I hardened, remembering how desperately I wanted Jess to do exactly this. Unlike my ex, Kaye's enthusiasm revealed her to be a willing instigator.
"Let's give him something to look at," she teased, her voice sultry. Through the viewfinder, I framed the pink sundress sliding to the floor, unveiling weathered curves. "Click." Yet each snap of the shutter captured self-possessed beauty that only maturity brings.
Gracefully, she lured me up the staircase, discarding lingerie for the camera. "Click." Reaching the master suite, she reclined across their marital bed, idly fingering beneath silver-laced curls of her mound. Shining green eyes beckoned me to her. "Click." "God, yes. Right there!" she gasped, accepting me into her.
Over the next hour or so, Kaye introduced me to her secret life as a "hotwife," a new term to me, but one I intuitively understood. "When I drop off this film," she confessed through heavy breaths, "that college kid at the film lab gets to see everything." Her knees splayed wider, for a nice closeup shot. "This will be my third set of prints, so he knows EXACTLY who I am." Then, giggling, "Poor thing can barely make eye contact when I'm at the counter."
Her most tantalizing story concerned a club, The Red Rooster. "Where, a year ago, John first watched a stranger take me," she purred, smiling at the memory. "It was his idea, but I was sooo nervous back then." Biting her nipple, I asked, "Is that an invitation?" Her smile turned pensive, and she taunted, "Perhaps, when my hubby gets back."
That timeline hit like cold water, but her face flushed at mentioning her husband's return. "Our arrangement is simple," she confided, clenching around me. "You get me only once. No messy entanglements that way." Her tone lowered. "I tell John every sexy detail. Especially how you feel right now. Inside me. Bare, without protection." Voice halting, her hips ground harder against me. "Now, cum inside me," she softly commanded. "I want a 'money shot' for John. Before you leave me tonight."
Driving home, Kaye's tale of the Red Rooster consumed me. I couldn't wait months for her husband to get back. Then, when I logged in at home, fate had smiled: a message from Bea appeared. We'd flirted for weeks but had never aligned schedules. "I'm free Friday," she wrote. "Let's meet." Something about her messages imbued that same vibe as Kaye, so I took a chance and typed back, "Ever been to the Red Rooster?"
Her response came without hesitation or questions: "Love it. Pick me up at 11."
That was 25 years ago. Today, Bea is my own beloved hotwife, sending her own "money shots" when I'm away. But those are stories for other SDC contests.
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