I walk into the hotel without hesitation, as though I belong here. Which, in a sense, I do. I’m not a frequent visitor, but have been here often enough that there’s a sense of familiarity and comfort.

There’s also a sense of excitement and nervousness. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, not so much due to guilt or shame, but rather because I'm not entirely sure what the evening will bring. 

You see, I’m here with a monomaniacal purpose. I just want, no, desperately need to get laid, by a complete stranger.

The need in me is urgent and intense. I’m already wet just walking into the lobby. For the past two months, I've kept my inner slut locked away, waiting patiently for a time to free her from her cage. The pressure has steadily built until I'm almost ready to explode. Finally, circumstances have allowed me to escape into my hidden, secret, depraved world, and I intend to take every advantage.

I don’t just need to get laid, I need to be fucked - properly fucked. Hard, aggressive, rough sex with a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it. A man confident in his sexual prowess, but not so cocky and selfish that he doesn’t take care of me.

But intense sex alone won't satisfy my ravenous appetite. Being a wanton slut, defying convention, cheating - these become all-consuming and heighten the sexual intensity. I crave the instant rush that only the forbidden can provide. It is only here that I can truly be myself.

I’ve altered my look for the occasion. I've traded in my suburban soccer mom for a mash-up of MILF, cougar, and slut.  My hair is slightly tousled. I've applied a touch too much makeup, and unbuttoned my blouse a bit lower than convention would dictate, offering a glimpse of my lacy bra and the curve of my breast. My skirt is a few inches too short, showing off my long, toned legs encased in dark sheer stockings that made me feel so sexy, so naughty, so aroused, as I languidly but lovingly pulled them up while sitting on the edge of my marital bed. 

It’s the facial expression that completes the look. My lusty eyes flash a come-hither invitation.  Skilled men on the hunt can see it from across the room. It’s my secret weapon.

Tonight, I wear my wedding ring. Sometimes I leave it at home, but experience teaches that the odds are better this way.  After some thought, it makes sense -  no strings., the allure of the forbidden. After all, few things are as enticing as another man’s wife.

I’ve traveled forty-five minutes to this place where no one will know me. That’s why I chose this venue, discretion plus a steady stream of professional men far enough from their own homes (and perhaps wives) to serve as prey to this huntress.

The lounge is only sparsely occupied, and I feel a surge of disappointment that only serves to increase my arousal, my desperation. My nerves are jangled, I'm like a junkie looking for her next fix. My nipples already ache, and a wet spot is slowly spreading across the front of my lacy thong.

They say there’s nothing like the first time. It remains seared into my memory. How I almost chickened out, multiple times. How I must have been visibly trembling. How guilty I felt, and yet how driven. And when that glorious moment came when an anonymous cock split my cunt lips and buried itself deep inside me, how intense was my orgasm and how complete I felt.

I sit at the bar and order a drink to ease my nerves. The first sip hits my stomach and I immediately feel suffused with warmth. I scan the bar, and the room, populated by only a few small groups of men, and two ordinary looking women. 

My spirits sink. Opportunities to play this game don’t come along that often. I ache for the chance to indulge my inner slut, to spread my legs and let a stranger violate me and the sanctity of my vows. I need to become a harlot for a night, to indulge my alter ego, to become a feral animal, guided only by my lust.

I tell myself to be patient, that it is still early, and that I have all night. I'm unusually anxious, perhaps because it's been so long since I've been able to sneak away. I order another drink. The buzz feels good. My skin is flushed, my pupils dilated. My pheromones must be detectible from across the room.

The evening wears on. I’m bored out of my mind now, but I don’t want another drink if I’m to drive home. I suck on the ice at the bottom of my glass as the frustration threatens to consume me.

I am desperate, nearly crying so insane is my need. 

It always seems to happen when you least expect it, when you're just about to give up. I smell him first, then feel his breath. He’s standing close, far too close for polite company, so close that I can feel his energy. There can be no doubt he is my kindred spirit, both of us looking for danger.  

This is really going to happen. I begin to tremble and wonder if he notices.

We engage in useless, banal chit-chat, the necessary preamble to this charade. But I’m too keyed up, and steer the conversation in its obvious direction with an urgency that betrays my intention. It’s probably not necessary; it seems clear that he is the sort of man who can smell my desire. 

All at once, he is gone. I aimlessly turn the card key over and over on the bar, counting out a discreet interval before making my own way to the elevators. I am shaking visibly now. I can barely focus.

I think I know how an addict must feel.

I take advantage of the empty elevator, unfastening another button of my blouse. I lean against the wall, hike my skirt, and move my thong aside to dip a finger into my already-drenched snatch.

I practically run to the door, tap the key card, open it, and step inside. 

He is waiting, pins me to the wall, and kisses me hungrily. I whimper, good little slut that I am, and offer my still-wet finger. He takes it into his mouth and gently licks it clean, then bites it until I wince. He tells me I’m a good girl.

I’m bent over the couch of his suite now. Somehow, I’ve lost everything but my thong. His cock is slapping against my bare ass cheeks. It is considerably larger than my husband's, and much, much more erect, pre-cum smearing across my skin. And, most important, it belongs to someone else. I grunt in approval as his fingers violate me, and he responds by twisting a nipple until I scream out in pain and ecstasy.

This one knows what he’s doing.

Holy fuck, he’s bottoming out in me now, still fully clothed, his hard cock protruding through his unzipped fly. He slams into me over and over, and as my first orgasm rips through me like a freight train I scream as my entire body shakes uncontrollably. This only makes him pound me more mercilessly and I release again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. So big, so hard, so deep. I tell him all this, implore him to take me even harder.

This is what I needed.

I am nothing but his personal fuck toy now, his slut to do with what he wants. Usually, I’m in some semblance of control, a co-equal partner, but this one has other ideas, and I can do nothing but surrender to him as wave after wave of intense pleasure washes over me with every thrust of his manhood.

He takes me everywhere and anywhere - perched on the desk, pressed against the window, on the floor, jackhammering me from above. He forces his cock down my throat until my tears cause mascara to run down my cheeks. He smears my lipstick over my face. I’m panting, my heart racing. I am in another world now, my home and my family completely forgotten. There is only me and this man and our animal coupling. He picks me up and, standing, continues to drive into me ferociously. His strength and power are frightening. I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck and kiss him deeply as another orgasm hits me.

I’ve lost count now, but they keep coming, and coming, each more powerful than the last. My god, this man has stamina.

But I need more. I crave his essence inside me. It's my deepest, darkest, most twisted desire, the ultimate violation of my promises. It completes me, in a degenerate and perverted way that only someone like me would understand.

He knows. He doesn’t ask for consent. I’m on the bed, on all fours, as he fucks me with an animal’s fury. He’s close.  Without warning he withdraws and flips me over on my back and immediately thrusts back into my drenched pussy. I’m an animal, and my fingernails tear into his back, wounding his flesh. Wife at home? I don’t give a flying fuck, and neither, apparently, does he. He only picks up pace, and I feel his cock swell as the inevitable moment approaches.

Dear god, this man knows how to fuck.

I wrap my legs around him and pull him in for all I am worth as he groans and shoots into me. Jet after jet after jet, terrifying in its intensity and volume. 

There is pregnancy risk - I’m a thrill junkie, a total freak. I nearly black out from the earthquake that hits my body. My eyes roll back in their sockets. I’m sure I’ve drawn blood on his back.

Fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck.

Consciousness gradually returns, and I kiss him fervently. I may have to break my one-and-done rule, assuming he’s willing and circumstances allow.

Time for all that later. Right now, there is a puddle on the bed. He is still hard, and inside me. I’m crying real tears of fulfillment as his seed pools deep in my cavern. At this moment, I care not for the implications.

He starts to move in and out, ever so slowly. The dance begins again, with hardly an interruption. I am going to be so sore tomorrow. 

I will milk every drop of cum from this man’s body, and he will fuck me until I am dry and utterly spent.

I am fulfilled, the animal in me unleashed to run in a jungle of pure lust and forbidden deeds. Afterward, I will return to my parallel universe, my hunger sated, for now.

Until the next time.