Snowed In Hotwife Shares The Bed

The blizzard hit harder than the forecast had promised. Thick sheets of white slammed against the windshield of Wesley’s SUV until the mountain road vanished into a wall of snow. Tamara sat in the passenger seat, still flushed from a day on the slopes, her long dark hair damp from melted flakes that had worked their way under her collar. At twenty-eight she still looked like she belonged in a magazine spread—full mouth, high breasts pushing against the thin thermal she wore, thighs strong from years of skiing. Wesley glanced at her and felt the familiar ache of wanting her and wanting something dirtier at the same time.

“Visibility’s gone,” he muttered. “There’s a cabin light up ahead. We pull over or we freeze.”

They staggered through the drifts and hammered on the door. It opened on a broad-shouldered man with a rough jaw and snow melting in his dark hair. Sullivan, thirty-two, snowboard instructor, rented the place for the season. He took one look at their blue lips and waved them inside without ceremony.

The cabin was small, heat pouring from a wood stove, one bedroom, one wide bed piled with quilts, and a battered couch near the fire. Sullivan poured whiskey while they stripped out of soaked layers. Tamara’s sports bra clung translucent to her nipples; Sullivan’s eyes flicked there once, openly, then away. Wesley saw it and felt his cock twitch.

When the storm locked them in for the night, the math of the furniture became obvious. Sullivan scratched the back of his neck. “Bed’s big enough for two. Couch is mine if you want the mattress.”

Wesley set his glass down. His voice came out rough. “Take the bed, both of you. I’ll take the couch.” He looked straight at his wife. “I’ve thought about this longer than I should admit. Watching you get fucked by another man. If you’re willing… I want it.”

Tamara’s pupils blew wide. She licked her lower lip, slow. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. Only if you want it too.”

She stepped into him, kissed him hard enough to bruise, then turned to Sullivan. “I want it.”

Sullivan’s answering grin was pure heat. “Then get under the covers.”

They left Wesley on the couch with a blanket and the low orange glow of the stove. The bedroom doorway stayed open; no one pretended otherwise. Tamara and Sullivan slid beneath the heavy quilts. For a few minutes there was only the sound of fabric and breathing. Then whispers, too low for full sentences at first, but Wesley caught every filthy syllable.

“He’s watching,” Tamara murmured.

“Good,” Sullivan answered. “Let him hear how wet you get for a stranger.”

Her hand moved under the blanket. Wesley heard the soft wet sound of a palm gliding over a cock that was already thickening. Tamara’s voice floated across the dark, aimed straight at her husband.

“I’m soaked, Wesley. Wetter than I’ve been for you in months. His cock feels huge already—thick, hot, heavy in my hand. I keep thinking about stretching around it while you sit there and stroke yourself.”

Sullivan groaned. “Fuck, your fingers… yeah, just like that. Tell him more.”

She did. She told Wesley how Sullivan’s cock jumped when she squeezed the head, how precome slicked her palm, how her own pussy clenched empty and needy. Her free hand shoved the quilt down so Wesley could see the silhouette of her fist working Sullivan’s shaft. Then she kicked the covers off entirely. Sullivan lay back, bare chest rising, cock standing thick and flushed against his stomach. Tamara knelt beside him, still in her panties, and locked eyes with her husband across the room.

“Watch me suck him.”

She bent and took Sullivan into her mouth in one long slide. Wet sounds filled the cabin—obscene, greedy. She hollowed her cheeks, took him deeper, gagged once and pushed past it, spit shining on her chin. Sullivan’s hand tangled in her hair. Wesley shoved his own sweats down and fisted his cock, stroking in time with the bob of his wife’s head. Tamara pulled off with a filthy pop, strings of spit connecting her lips to Sullivan’s cockhead.

“He tastes different,” she said, voice hoarse. “Saltier. I love it.”

She swung a leg over Sullivan and faced Wesley, reverse-cowgirl, so her husband had a perfect view. She dragged her soaked panties to the side, not even bothering to remove them. Sullivan’s thick cock nudged her entrance. Tamara reached down, lined him up, and sank.

The stretch tore a broken moan from her throat. Inch by inch she took him, cunt lips spreading shiny and tight around the thick shaft until she bottomed out, ass flush to his hips. She stayed there a second, breathing hard, then started to ride. Slow rolls at first, letting Wesley see every wet inch disappear and reappear. Then faster. Her tits bounced; she cupped them, pinched her own nipples, never looking away from her husband’s face.

“Feel how open I am for him,” she panted. “Your cock never makes me this full. God—Sullivan—fuck me harder.”

Sullivan’s hands clamped her hips. He thrust up to meet her, the wet slap of skin loud in the small room. Tamara’s moans climbed. She reached back, spread her cheeks so Wesley could watch the way Sullivan’s cock punched deep, stretching her pink pussy wide, cream gathering at the base.

Sullivan sat up, wrapped an arm around her waist, and flipped them without pulling out. He shoved her flat onto her stomach, knees wide, and drove into her prone. The new angle made her cry out. He pounded her hard, balls slapping her clit, one hand fisting her hair so her face stayed turned toward Wesley.

“Tell him,” Sullivan growled against her ear. “Tell your husband how good this stranger cock feels wrecking his wife’s cunt.”

“So fucking good,” Tamara sobbed. “He’s destroying me, Wesley—deeper than you go, thicker—I’m going to come on him. Don’t you dare look away.”

Wesley stroked faster, precome dripping over his knuckles. Tamara shattered with a raw scream, pussy fluttering and squirting around Sullivan’s driving cock. Sullivan fucked her through it, relentless, then pulled free with a wet sound. He hauled her onto her back, straddled her ribs, and stroked himself hard and fast over her heaving tits and open mouth.

“On her face,” Wesley rasped, surprising even himself. “Cover her.”

Sullivan came with a low grunt, thick ropes of cum striping Tamara’s breasts, collarbone, chin, lower lip. She stuck her tongue out and caught the last pulses, swallowing what she could, the rest dripping down her flushed skin. Sullivan rubbed the head of his cock through the mess on her tits, marking her, then sat back breathing hard.

Tamara didn’t wait. She crawled off the bed on shaking limbs, cum still painted across her chest and face, and crossed to the couch on her knees. Wesley’s cock stood rigid, flushed dark. She climbed into his lap, kissed him deep and filthy so he tasted Sullivan on her tongue—salt, musk, the stranger’s release mixed with her own spit. Wesley groaned into her mouth and licked the cum from her chin.

She reached between them, wrapped her fingers around her husband’s cock, and guided him into her freshly fucked pussy. She was loose and slick with Sullivan’s stretch and her own juices; Wesley slid home in one thrust and shuddered.

“So wet,” he choked. “Used. Christ, Tamara—”

She rode him slow, rolling her hips, letting him feel how open she was, how another man’s cum still slicked her walls. Behind her Sullivan watched from the bed, already half-hard again, a dark smile on his mouth. Tamara leaned down, lips against Wesley’s ear, voice thick with satisfaction and promise.

“This is only the beginning of our snowed-in weekend,” she whispered, then louder, so both men heard every word. “You wanted to watch me get fucked. Now tell me—how many times are you going to make me take him before the storm clears?”