My name is Alexis. I’m 36, married, and work in the corporate world—on the surface, just another responsible wife and mother. But beneath it? This is the story of how a traditional wife… became a hotwife.

Before marriage, I had a deeply active sex life. I loved being wanted. Being touched. Being taken. But once I got married, it all changed. The passion faded. The heat died. The desire, at least from my husband, felt like a distant memory.

And yet, my body… never stopped drawing attention. I’ve always been told I have that kind of body. The kind men can’t help but stare at them. As I got older, that attention turned from flattery to something darker. Wherever I went, I felt eyes undressing me with hungry, shameless stares.

Eventually, I stopped fighting it. The occasional brush of a hand in public. The way coworkers “accidentally” bumped into me, accidentally touching my breasts or their crotch on my ass. The inappropriate stares at work. It all became… normal. Something I silently endured. Or maybe, something I quietly let happen.

But let me take you to the moment it really began.

I was working as an assistant to the Chief Editor of a well-known magazine. A regular day. A regular woman. At least that’s what I told myself. At home, I had my husband, our four children, and what people might call a happy family.

That morning, just before I left for work, my husband wanted a quick fuck. I agreed—mostly out of habit. He called it a “quickie,” but ended up dragging it out. I had to finish him off with my mouth, kneeling between his legs like some obedient little housewife.

His cum was warm, thick, and salty—and before I could wipe it all away, some had dripped onto my shirt. I didn’t even notice.

I was already running late, so I rushed out, still tasting him, and boarded the packed train. The crush of bodies around me didn’t help. I felt men press close—some just curious, others deliberate. Hands brushing too low. Arms lingering too long. Someone’s crotch nudging against the curve of my back. Fingers grazing too close to my breasts.

And the worst part? I barely flinched. I’d gotten so used to it that it barely registered anymore.

When I reached the office, flustered and slightly sticky beneath my shirt, I was wearing a fitted white button-down and a tight midi skirt that hugged my hips. That’s when I remembered—it was the day the new Chief Editor was joining.

He wasn’t just another boss. He was the owner's son. And that morning was his official introduction to the staff.

I arrived late to the meeting, slipping in quietly, hoping not to draw attention. Most eyes were on him—Jack. Tall, confident, dangerous.

After the meeting, I introduced myself. He looked me over. I could tell. His voice was calm but firm. “You were late. I don’t like that. Don’t let it happen again.”

Just like that, I knew I’d made a bad first impression. But more than that—I felt something else. A tension. A current I hadn’t felt in a long time. I suddenly wanted him to see me. Really see me. Not as a mother. Not as a married woman. But as something he might want. Maybe that could help me make an impression, maybe a better one this time.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt that old hunger… flicker back to life.

After the meeting, I rushed to the restroom, still flustered from my late arrival—and from Jack’s piercing gaze. That’s when I finally noticed the dried cum stain on my shirt. A faint outline, right near the buttons. My husband’s mess. His mark. And I’d walked into the most important meeting of my life with it on display.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I dabbed at the stain with wet tissue and tried to clean myself up. I looked in the mirror. My shirt was wrinkled, damp at the front, and even with the stain faded, I still looked like someone who’d just sucked cock before work.

I sighed, took a breath, and made a decision. I tucked in my shirt tighter, freshened my makeup, and casually popped open the top button. I told myself it was to look natural. But deep down, I knew better. I wanted Jack to look again.

When I returned to his office, I told him I’d walk him through the internal structure and current workflow. I’d been holding the department together for years—without much recognition. This was my chance to be seen. To be valued.

I leaned over his desk to point things out on a layout printout. My blouse hung open just enough to give him a subtle view. His eyes dipped, and I saw the hesitation—just for a second. But it was there. I knew that look.

I pretended not to notice. But I had already won the first round.

From there, the days went on. And so did the glances.

Jack and I started working closely. Conversations shifted from formal to casual. We laughed more. Shared late lunches. Little touches on the arm. Lingering eye contact that lasted just a second too long.

After a few months, we were more than just coworkers. We were friendly. Too friendly.

One evening, he asked me out for a drink. Casually, like it meant nothing. I declined, politely but firmly. “I’m married,” I said with a smile.

He smiled back, but there was a flicker in his eyes. I could tell—he took it as rejection. And that bruised something in him. Something dangerous.

A few weeks later, the layoffs started. Big corporations were bleeding people. Even my husband lost his job. Suddenly, I was our only source of income, and every paycheck felt like survival.

Jack must’ve known. He didn’t ask, but his timing was perfect.

One afternoon, he walked into my office and casually asked if I wanted to join him for a site visit the next day. It was in a remote location, deep in the forest—just a shoot setup for an upcoming magazine spread. He said I’d be paid double. Plus, site bonuses.

I didn’t hesitate. I needed the money. I told my husband I’d be out of town for the shoot, and he didn’t question it. He trusted me. He always had. I wish he hadn’t.

The next morning, I dressed carefully. Nothing too obvious. Just professional enough to look like I wasn’t trying too hard. But I still chose the blouse that clung just a little tighter to my chest, and the skirt that hugged my hips just a little more than necessary.

I told myself it was for confidence. Not for him.

We drove together. I called my husband from Jack’s car, letting him know I’d be out late. He told me to be careful. To call if I needed anything. He said he loved me.

I thanked him softly, and hung up before the guilt could choke me.

The cabin was deep in the woods—remote, quiet, unsettling. It was set up for a photo shoot the next day, fully prepped with lighting and props, but no one else was there yet. Just Jack and me.

He led me through the setup, showing me the spots the models would pose in. I stood in one of them, the wooden floor cool beneath my heels, imagining what it must feel like to strip there—to expose yourself in such a raw, isolated place.

I didn’t know then that I was about to find out.

We chatted casually. He asked about my husband, my home life. I mentioned—without detail—that things had been hard. That my husband losing his job had taken a toll. He listened quietly. And then he made the first move.

“If you ever need help… real help,” he said, “I could offer something more direct.”

I looked at him. Unsure. Curious.

He smiled. “I’ve got a private collection. Photos. Nothing public. Just tasteful stuff. If you’re willing, I’d pay you for a few shots. Nothing too crazy. Just sexy, confident—you.”

I laughed at first. Nervous. “Jack, I’m not a model.”

“No,” he said, standing closer, “You’re not. That’s what makes it better.”

I hesitated. But then he named the price. A hundred dollars per photo. All taken on my phone. He’d choose, I’d send. No copies. Just clean business.

I paused. I needed the money. But more than that, something dark inside me wanted to see how far I’d go.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “But no touching. No crossing the line. Just photos.”

“Agreed,” he said, and stepped back. “Let’s begin.”

He started simple. A few shots of me standing near the window, hands on my hips, eyes cast downward. I posed stiffly at first, trying to hide how uncomfortable I was.

But Jack didn’t push—at least, not at first. He complimented my angles. Adjusted the lighting. Told me how “incredible” I looked. The praise felt foreign. Dangerous. Addictive.

“Unbutton the top,” he said after a few clicks. “Just one. Let the neckline breathe.”

I hesitated, then did it. One button. My cleavage peeked out just enough. He snapped a few more. “Open one more.”

Another pause. Another button. The shirt gaped slightly now, and I crossed my arms to cover myself.

“Don’t hide,” he murmured. “If I’m paying a hundred per shot, it has to be real. Make it worth it.”

I looked away, lips tight. But I obeyed.

He moved closer, phone still in hand. “Take it off,” he said quietly.

I stared at him. “What?”

“The shirt. Just the shirt.”

I shook my head. “Jack, we said—”

“You’ve been teasing me since the first day you walked in. Don’t pretend you haven’t. You’re better than this shy act.”

My heart pounded. I could still leave. Still say no. But instead… I looked down, took a shaky breath, and slowly pulled the blouse off my shoulders.

I stood there, in my bra, arms crossed over my chest again. But he was patient—waited until I moved my arms and gave him a better view. Then more photos.

“Now lose the bra.”

I didn’t move.

He stepped closer. “Come on. You’re gorgeous. You know you are. You’ve spent your whole life letting men look. Just this once… let it pay off.”

His words were poisonous. They slithered into the parts of me I didn’t want to admit existed. The part that missed being wanted. The part that liked the power of being watched.

I reached behind and unclasped the bra. I held it in place for a moment. Then I let it fall.

My breasts spilled into the open air, nipples tightening from the chill—and the exposure. I covered them with my hands, but he moved the camera lower.

“Use your arms. Pose. Show off. You’re earning it.”

And I did. I posed. Hands pushing my breasts together, tilting my hips, letting the shame wrap around me like silk. The more he snapped, the more I stopped thinking about what I was doing—and started wondering what it looked like.

He kept going. Asking for more. Skirt off. Panties down. Pose like this. Arch like that.

By the end, I was completely naked, perched on a stool, legs parted slightly, arms posed just right, as if I were still in control. But I wasn’t.

He looked through the photos, selected the ones he wanted, and handed me $1,200 in cash.

I should have felt disgusted. Dirty. Instead, I felt… flushed. Alive. Ashamed. Powerful.

I was still scrolling through the pictures on my phone when I realized he was walking toward me. Naked.

My heart skipped. I stood up quickly. “Jack, we said no touching.”

He held up his hands. “Relax. I’m offering you another deal.”

I stared at him.

“One thousand more,” he said smoothly, “if you suck me off.”

I froze. “You’re insane.”

“You need the money. And let’s not pretend you haven’t thought about it. Hell, half those photos are practically invitations.”

I was shaking. Angry. Embarrassed. Desperate. I should’ve walked out. But instead… I sat down.

And I nodded.

I knelt down in front of him, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack through my ribs. I hated myself at that moment. Hated him more. But I couldn’t stop.

My hands trembled as I reached for his cock. The moment I touched it, it twitched—thick, heavy, and fully erect. I stared at it, stunned. I had never seen one so big. Not even close.

I tried to start with my hand, stroking it slowly, but he stopped me. “No,” he said, voice low. “I’m not paying for a handjob. Mouth. Now.”

I closed my eyes. Took a breath. My lips touched the head, and I felt a shiver rush through me.

I hated this. I hated how wrong it felt… and yet, how alive I suddenly was. The warmth of his skin. The way his shaft pulsed under my tongue. The weight of him against my lips.

I opened my mouth and let him in. Slowly. Carefully. Inch by thick inch.

At first, I moved stiffly. Out of obligation. But as the minutes passed, something changed. My lips glided more smoothly. My hand found his thigh. My tongue moved with purpose. Shame burned behind my eyes, but my body didn’t stop.

I wrapped both hands around his hips and began to suck him in deeper. Harder. Like I needed to prove something. To him. To myself.

He moaned—deep and satisfied—and grabbed the back of my head. “Fuck, Alexis…”

And then, without warning, he thrust forward. His cock jammed deep into my throat. I gagged hard, eyes tearing up, hands smacking against his thighs in protest.

He didn’t let go. He held me there. My mouth stretched wide, lips trembling, spit running down my chin.

Then finally, with a grunt, he exploded.

His cum hit the back of my throat in hot, thick spurts. I choked, swallowing instinctively as some of it leaked past my lips. He groaned as he emptied himself, finally releasing me as I gasped for air.

I stumbled back, coughing. Eyes watery. Chest heaving. I ran to the restroom and threw up—humiliated, ashamed, and completely overwhelmed.

We said nothing on the ride home. I stared out the window the entire way, trying not to cry. I didn’t even know what to think.

All I wanted was to go home. But when I walked through that door, everything felt wrong. My husband greeted me with a tired smile. The kids ran to hug me. I faked one back.

I avoided eye contact. Barely spoke. Took a long, scalding shower and forced myself to throw up again, just to feel… clean.

Then I crawled into bed, turned away from my husband’s warm body, and stared at the wall until sleep took me.

I’d cheated. Not just physically. But deeply. Silently. Shamefully. And the worst part? It wouldn’t be the last time.

The next morning at work, I kept my head down. Avoided his office. Avoided my reflection. Avoided everything.

But when Jack walked past me, he smiled—casual, polite, as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t just sucked him off in a cabin like some cheap whore.

Later that day, during our morning meeting, he made an announcement. “From now on, Alexis will be joining me for all site visits. I think it’s time she got some hands-on experience.”

Everyone clapped. I smiled faintly, nodding like it was a promotion. But I knew better. I knew exactly what he meant.

After the meeting, I pulled him aside. I didn’t even bother hiding the panic in my voice.

“That won’t happen again,” I said firmly. “Not for money. Not for anything.”

He gave me that smirk—the one that always made my stomach tighten in the worst way. “Of course,” he said. “Your choice.”

A few days later, we were at another shoot. The location was remote again, the hours long, and by the time we wrapped up, it was late. We drove back together, silence thick in the car.

Then, without warning, Jack pulled off the road and stopped in a dark patch near the forest, far from the freeway.

I tensed immediately. “No,” I said before he even spoke. “I told you, I’m not doing that anymore.”

He said nothing at first. Just reached over to the console and tapped the screen. A video started playing; it was us. The shoot. Me slowly stripping. Posing. His voice coaxed me to do more. Then… the blowjob. My lips wrapped around his cock. My eyes are looking up. The money being handed over.

He had edited it—cut together the most damning moments.

My blood ran cold. I started to sweat. My heart pounded in my ears. “Delete it,” I whispered. “Delete it right now.”

He shrugged. “I will. If you earn it.”

I stared at him. Helpless. Sick.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “But delete it afterward. I swear to God, Jack.”

He smiled like a man who’d already won.

I slid out of my seat and onto the floor of the car. His pants came down, and his cock was already hard. I hated how familiar it was becoming.

I opened my mouth and took him in again—this time without negotiation, without dignity, without illusion.

He leaned back, letting me work, moaning softly as I sucked him deeper. I gagged again, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. But my body betrayed me. I moved faster. My tongue swirled with practiced rhythm. I cupped his balls and sucked like a woman who knew exactly what was expected of her.

And just before he came, he warned me.

I didn’t pull away this time. I simply closed my lips around the head, sucked hard, and let him spill inside me. I swallowed every drop.

When I sat back up, face flushed, lips swollen, he looked at me and said gently, “It’s our little secret. As long as you keep serving me, that video will never see daylight.”

I didn’t speak. I just turned my face toward the window and let the silence swallow me.

That night, I returned home to my husband—his loyal, loving wife. I kissed him softly. Told him I was tired.

We had sex. Gentle. Familiar. Normal. He kissed my cheek afterward and pulled me close.

But my body was still sore from kneeling. And in my mind… I was still on my knees in the forest.

Days turned into weeks, and the visits to the cabin became a regular part of my life. With each trip, the line between work and pleasure blurred more and more, until they became indistinguishable.

No one at the office suspected a thing. They saw only the diligent assistant, the hardworking wife pulling double shifts to keep her family afloat. But behind closed doors—and in those remote forests—I was something else entirely.

Every site visit ended the same way: the photoshoot, the quiet offers, the money sliding across the table. Then the inevitable. The blowjob, the swallowing, the secret that burned hotter than any flame I’d felt in years.

I grew numb to the shame, and strangely, I began to crave it. The danger. The taboo. The raw power of being desired by a man who knew exactly how much control he had over me.

My husband was still struggling with his new business, his dreams hanging by a thread. I buried my guilt deep beneath the weight of responsibility.

Jack never hesitated to remind me who held the leash. If I hesitated, if I faltered, there was always the threat of the video—the proof of my betrayal—waiting to surface.

But I was trapped by more than blackmail. I was caught in the rush of lust, in the thrill of cheating. The way Jack’s hands felt on my body. The way his voice lowered when he spoke to me. The way my own reflection started to change—eyes darker, lips fuller, skin flushed with secrets.

At home, I kissed my husband with lips that had tasted another man’s cock. I cuddled my children, while my mind replayed every whispered command and every stolen touch.

I was a wife. A mother. A cheat. A hot wife.

And I was only just beginning.