From the moment I met my wife, Penelope, I was captivated by her vibrant and radiant energy. She is beautiful, fit, has a petite frame, mesmerizing dirty blonde hair and stunning blue eyes and the most gorgeous ass a man would ever pray for. She carries herself with intention: elegant, poised, aware of her power but never careless with it. She doesn't seek attention, yet it follows her effortlessly. And maybe that is why I fantasize about temptation. Not about changing her nature, but about watching her learn to choose desire.

For years, the idea of sharing her stayed firmly off-limits. Her refusals were clear, thoughtful, final. I respected them. But time has a way of softening certainty, and eventually curiosity crept in. Questions replaced walls. Conversations grew longer, and it finally happened. She had her first lover during our vacation to a Caribbean island (you can see the text messages on our profile). Since then, she still wouldn't consider herself a hotwife, and I only very strategically brought it up.

Last year, we traveled with family and friends to a Greek island. I planned the routes, guided the days to chase sunlight across beaches and winding roads.

One afternoon we ended up at a beautiful beach with dramatic cliffs and turquoise water. Once we were done with the beach, we were all hungry so decided to walk to a small restaurant nearby.

That’s when we noticed Nikos, "our waiter".

Tall, confident, easy in his body. He moved with the quiet assurance of someone comfortable being seen. And Penelope noticed him immediately. Not openly, just a shift in energy. A brighter smile. A laugh that lingered half a second longer than usual.

I saw it. She knew I saw it.

Dinner unfolded slowly. I speak a bit of Greek, so he chatted with me about travel and life abroad and made some jokes. It was a wonderful dinner. "I hope to see you again before you leave", Nikos said before we said our goodbyes.

Later that night, my phone buzzed. She asked me to buy her a certain pair of sandals.

“Hotwife sandals,” she joked.

I teased her gently. “But you’re not a hotwife.”

Her response came quickly.

“I would be for that waiter.”

It wasn’t crude. It wasn’t impulsive. It was honest, and that honesty stayed with me.

On our final night, I suggested we return to the same restaurant since they served the best food we had on the island. Nikos was happy to see us. Six of us at one table, family laughing, unaware of the current running just beneath the surface. He’d been orbiting our table all evening, his focus a tangible thing, a gravitational pull centered entirely on my wife. I saw it in the way he would leaned in a little too close to describe the catch of the day, his forearm, tanned and roped with muscle, brushing her shoulder. I heard it in her responding laughter, a giggle too high, too breathy for a woman simply ordering moussaka. She thanked him using his name.

"Do you want to meet Nikos the waiter afterwards?"

"I love his name", she said with a heart emoji followed by "We will see if it's in my fortune ;)"

I then said "Tell me"

"Did he give you any impression that he would want to do that?"

"Yes", I responded.

"See the problem is I know you are just saying that."

"Okay" I said.

Nikos was then back to the table, and we were discussing random topics. When he asked me if Penelope was my wife, I felt a strange mix of pride and possession. I smiled and told him to relax. With my broken Greek, I said "I will ask her to go to the bathroom, in case you want to get her number."

A few seconds, I sent her a message:

“Go to the bathroom.”

Four words on her phone’s screen. Four seconds before she stood, her chair scraping softly against the terracotta tiles. “I will be back,” she said, her voice a melody of practiced calm. No one at the table of six, her parents, our friends, even looked up from their conversations and plates of grilled octopus.

But Nikos did!

My heart pounded. Is she that horny? Is she really going to do something in a restaurant bathroom? This was it. The culmination of years of whispered fantasies, of paintings I’d painted for her of liberation and shared pleasure. A billion no’s had led to this single, staggering yes.

She returned, all polite smiles, stopping to chat with the elderly owners. But then Nikos was there, a bottle of wine in hand, a pretext to be near her. I saw their heads tilt close and a smile on his lips. When she got back to the table there was a faint blush creeping up her neck. The transaction was made. I didn’t need to hear the words to know it. She later told me that she asked him if he could keep a secret. "Yes" he said. "You are the hottest man I have seen on the island." He blushed, and returned the compliment and asked for her Instagram.

Later, in our villa overlooking the sea, there was unspoken tension. Her parents were asleep in the bottom floor bedroom. Penelope's texts lit up my phone, a digital pulse of her nervous excitement.

"He messaged me.

He finished his shift.

He asked if he could see me."

My fingers trembled as I typed. "Do you want him?"

The reply took a lifetime. "I don’t know. I need to feel the chemistry. But my god, his arms…"

"Ask for permissions. Would you fuck him?"

Another message, a minute later. A photograph. A sliver of leopard-print fabric laid out on the bed. Next to it, a wisp of shocking pink silk. "I put my pink thong on and the leopard top. So that should answer your question."

Permission granted. A primal, possessive jealousy warred with a devouring arousal inside me. My wife. My elegant, composed wife was downstairs, potentially meeting another man.

I couldn’t stay still. I crept down to the beach, a ghost in the shadows, but found nothing but lapping waves and empty loungers. Defeated, I returned to our bedroom, the silence of the villa screaming in my ears. Then, the text:

"Coming."

The whisper of the side yard door opening was deafening. Soft footsteps on the stairs. Two sets of footsteps. She had brought him to the villa. I moved to the upstairs bedroom window, behind the curtains, and looked down on the patio overlooking the sea.

Nikos was on a low chair, and Penelope was perched on his lap, her back to me. His hands rested on her powerful hips, his muscular arms (the ones she admired) flexing as he held her. Their mouths were locked together, not in a shy exploration, but in a deep, hungry kiss that spoke of a need that had been simmering since the day they met.

She pulled back, as if she could read my mind hesitating. Still, I watched mesmerized, as her hands went to his belt. She didn’t fumble. There was a shocking certainty to her movements. And then she was sliding to her knees on the stone floor. Her hands worked, and then she leaned forward. I saw the shape of him, silhouetted against the night—thick, and impressively erect. My breath caught in my throat.

Penelope didn’t hesitate. She leaned in and took him into her mouth.

An audible moan came from Nikos. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. My wife's head began to bob, a rhythm that was sloppy, eager, and utterly voracious. She was not the cautious woman I knew; she was a creature of raw need. She took him deep, her throat working, and I saw her pull back, gasping for air, from what I could only assume was a slobber covered cock.

Oh my god. The shock was palpable. Is this my wife?

She did it again, deeper this time, and she choked slightly, a wet, desperate sound that should have been a warning but was instead the most erotically charged noise I’d ever heard. She came up for air, laughing softly, breathlessly, and then did something that sent a jolt straight to my own aching cock: she took his length and patted it, almost playfully, against her cheek. The submission, the raw sensuality of it, unraveled me.

I couldn’t stop myself. My hand was in my shorts, gripping my own hardness, stroking in time with the movements of her head. The sight of her on her knees, worshiping another man’s body with a hunger I’d never witnessed was the most potent aphrodisiac imaginable. My release was sudden, a silent, violent eruption that left me shuddering, leaning against the wall for support, my cum flooding the desk in front of me.

In the sobering aftershock, a cold dread washed over me. What have I done? Why am I letting this happen?

But it was too late. On the balcony, Nikos was lifting her, his arms bulging with the effort, and laying her back on a pile of cushions. He knelt between her legs. I saw her ankles hook around his back, her leopard-print top pushed up to reveal her small, perfect breasts. And then he was pushing into her.

Penelope's back arched off the cushions, and I knew that soon he would be sliding into her. I saw the stretch, the slow, deliberate glide as he filled her. She began to move, her hips finding a rhythm, rising to meet his thrusts. Then, she was riding him, and it was the most erotic, the most heart-wrenching, the most exhilarating thing I had ever felt.

It seemed to last both an instant and an eternity. When they finished, he gathered her into his arms again, lifting her effortlessly as they shared a long, tender kiss and whispered words I would never hear. Then he was gone.

The bedroom door clicked open. Penelope stood there, and I could see she was nervous, her hair a mess of tangles. As she got closer, the smell of sea air, sweat, and another man radiated from her.

I didn’t speak. I just pulled her to me, my hands roaming, claiming. My fingers found the waistband of her jeans, dipped inside, and slid passed the soaked silk of her thong. She was so warm. So used. The faint, distinctive scent of latex mixed with her own musky arousal.

I crushed my mouth to hers, the salt of her skin, the unique flavor of her forbidden desire. I could not wait another moment to be inside her, my cock, harder and bigger than I could ever remember, sliding into that incredible, well-fucked heat. I pushed slowly (knowing her parents were sleeping just beneath our bedroom), achingly deep, and felt her inner muscles flutter around me in shocked recognition.

She whispered in my ear. “You’re… so deep.”

I held myself there, not moving, just throbbing within her, feeling every pulse and quiver of her well-loved body. Her eyes were wide, locked on mine.

“He was… oh god… he was big,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “But you… you’re touching a place he didn’t. You’re everywhere.”

Her body began to clench around me, a series of violent, involuntary spasms that ripped through her. She came without a single thrust from me, trying to hold back any sounds of her inner euphoria. The sensation of her climax, so intense and unexpected, tore my own orgasm from me, and I filled her, my own release joining the remnants of their encounter.

We collapsed together, breathless, stunned. Her eyes searched mine, wide with a mixture of shock and dawning, incredible understanding.

“What… what was that?” she breathed. “I came without you even moving.”

I just held her tighter, my mind already screaming for the details, for the story, for every single thing that led to this moment. The report was coming. And I knew, with a certainty that shook me to my core, that mentally we would return here again and again. Even though it was not the first time, it felt like it was only the beginning.