Nº. 1 of  37

Pleasing Your Wife

All of the captions to the photographs are mine. They will fit a variety of fantasies – from the cuckold lifestyle, to the affair behind her husband's back, to the one night stand, to the open polyamorous relationship with another man, or woman. The common theme – she's married and finding her pleasure elsewhere.

The photographs are most definitely NSFW and if you're under age 18, please go elsewhere and do not follow. I do not claim credit for any of the images here and I post credit when available. If something needs to be taken off or if you can attribute an image let me know.

                                           The devil wears Prada…
                                                            but a hotwife wears these.

                                           The devil wears Prada…

                                                            but a hotwife wears these.

(via likeaboy12)

So as far as internships go, my summer at Lawton, Trevor and Collins sucked about as bad you can imagine. Lookit’, I know I’m only a junior at Virginia Tech, but when you intern at an architectural firm you’re hoping for a few creative assignments and at least some training on the CAD technology or something.  Instead, I’m a glorified receptionist and the only machines I got my hands on were the telephone and the Xerox copier.
Anyways, the next to the last day there and old man Lawton comes waddling by to pay me the first visit of the summer. He asks how things went and I lie through my teeth to avoid the conflict and hopefully get rid of him quicker. Besides, I could tell by the way he asked that he really didn’t give a damn about the answer. He’s got to have an ulterior motive in starting up the conversation.
He pulls out my resume from the application I sent in for the internship and points to the list of hobbies.  “Says here you do caricature portraits?”
“Yes sir. It’s just for kicks, but I enjoy it.  Keeps me out of trouble when I don’t have anything to do.”  I was hoping he could read between the lines on that, but he didn’t.
“You do them for commission?”
“Sometimes,” I shrug nonchalantly.  That’s a lie, but what the hell – he’s made of money.
“Wendy and I – err – Wendy is my wife…” And I’m thinking to myself like the pig bastard needs to tell me that.  Hell, everyone in the office knows about his trophy wife — thirty years younger than he is and rumored to be fucking half the professional staff.  Even a punk intern like me has heard the stories. “It’s our third anniversary coming up and I was thinking –”
I cut him off right there and decide what the hell, I’m never setting foot in this joint again and for all I care he can fire my ass on the spot if he wants. So I just up and tell him the truth.  “I’ve already drawn her.”  
He’s flabbergasted; but to prove it, I pull it out from the small folder of drawings I keep in my backpack.  It’s a pastel charcoal sketch I made on some brown wrapping paper that I saved from a UPS package that was delivered my first week on the job. He scowls down over the top of his glasses, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and finally scrutinizes it with a pleased if not somewhat mortified look on his pudgy face.
“That’s one hell of an imagination you’ve got there, son.”
I could have told him that my imagination sucks and I always sketch from a live model but at that moment the phone rang – so I just let him think what he wanted.  Penciled “$50” on a notepad, spun it so he could see, and that was that.

So as far as internships go, my summer at Lawton, Trevor and Collins sucked about as bad you can imagine. Lookit’, I know I’m only a junior at Virginia Tech, but when you intern at an architectural firm you’re hoping for a few creative assignments and at least some training on the CAD technology or something.  Instead, I’m a glorified receptionist and the only machines I got my hands on were the telephone and the Xerox copier.

Anyways, the next to the last day there and old man Lawton comes waddling by to pay me the first visit of the summer. He asks how things went and I lie through my teeth to avoid the conflict and hopefully get rid of him quicker. Besides, I could tell by the way he asked that he really didn’t give a damn about the answer. He’s got to have an ulterior motive in starting up the conversation.

He pulls out my resume from the application I sent in for the internship and points to the list of hobbies.  “Says here you do caricature portraits?”

“Yes sir. It’s just for kicks, but I enjoy it.  Keeps me out of trouble when I don’t have anything to do.”  I was hoping he could read between the lines on that, but he didn’t.

“You do them for commission?”

“Sometimes,” I shrug nonchalantly.  That’s a lie, but what the hell – he’s made of money.

“Wendy and I – err – Wendy is my wife…” And I’m thinking to myself like the pig bastard needs to tell me that.  Hell, everyone in the office knows about his trophy wife — thirty years younger than he is and rumored to be fucking half the professional staff.  Even a punk intern like me has heard the stories. “It’s our third anniversary coming up and I was thinking –”

I cut him off right there and decide what the hell, I’m never setting foot in this joint again and for all I care he can fire my ass on the spot if he wants. So I just up and tell him the truth.  “I’ve already drawn her.” 

He’s flabbergasted; but to prove it, I pull it out from the small folder of drawings I keep in my backpack.  It’s a pastel charcoal sketch I made on some brown wrapping paper that I saved from a UPS package that was delivered my first week on the job. He scowls down over the top of his glasses, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and finally scrutinizes it with a pleased if not somewhat mortified look on his pudgy face.

“That’s one hell of an imagination you’ve got there, son.”

I could have told him that my imagination sucks and I always sketch from a live model but at that moment the phone rang – so I just let him think what he wanted.  Penciled “$50” on a notepad, spun it so he could see, and that was that.

(Source: olderoticart, via naughtyvoyer-deactivated2014021)

Three men, two wives, four hours of discussion…
One darkly erotic plan.

Three men, two wives, four hours of discussion…

One darkly erotic plan.

(Source: thiplace, via girlslovegoodinnuendo)

The Treaty of Versailles had fewer provisions.  Most of these were established by the men – Tim Carlisle and Bobby DeWitt.  They’d met in college, were best men in each others’ weddings, both started with the same engineering firm until Bobby quit to take over the family business and the two still play softball on the same fastpitch team.
Tim and his wife, Libby, would go north on Thursday to open up the family cabin for the summer.  Make sure the pipes hadn’t frozen over the winter, air things out, get the lawn furniture out of the shed, that sort of thing.  Bobby and Sara would be there by dinner on Friday.  Bobby was anxious and they arrived mid-afternoon.
Soft-swap only. Same room. Friday night before anyone lost their nerve. Lights off but fireplace lit.  The Carlisles, as hosts, “receiving” in the chairs on Friday. If all went well, roles would be reversed on Saturday. Sara wasn’t as comfortable in her skin as the others so she’s wanting to remain clothed – Libby kept her top on in Solidarity.  Oral only until the Carlisle’s came, then spouses stayed together and adjourned to their own bedrooms to fuck.  Doors open so everyone could at least hear.
That’s what was negotiated between the four of them. Truth of the matter was, Tim had one last secret stipulation with his wife, Libby. No matter how good Bobby was – she had to fake her orgasm.

Libby has her own secret.  She’s faked them with her husband dozens of times without his knowing.  So she decides he sure as fuck won’t know tonight either. 

The Treaty of Versailles had fewer provisions.  Most of these were established by the men – Tim Carlisle and Bobby DeWitt.  They’d met in college, were best men in each others’ weddings, both started with the same engineering firm until Bobby quit to take over the family business and the two still play softball on the same fastpitch team.

Tim and his wife, Libby, would go north on Thursday to open up the family cabin for the summer.  Make sure the pipes hadn’t frozen over the winter, air things out, get the lawn furniture out of the shed, that sort of thing.  Bobby and Sara would be there by dinner on Friday.  Bobby was anxious and they arrived mid-afternoon.

Soft-swap only. Same room. Friday night before anyone lost their nerve. Lights off but fireplace lit.  The Carlisles, as hosts, “receiving” in the chairs on Friday. If all went well, roles would be reversed on Saturday. Sara wasn’t as comfortable in her skin as the others so she’s wanting to remain clothed – Libby kept her top on in Solidarity.  Oral only until the Carlisle’s came, then spouses stayed together and adjourned to their own bedrooms to fuck.  Doors open so everyone could at least hear.

That’s what was negotiated between the four of them. Truth of the matter was, Tim had one last secret stipulation with his wife, Libby. No matter how good Bobby was – she had to fake her orgasm.

Libby has her own secret.  She’s faked them with her husband dozens of times without his knowing.  So she decides he sure as fuck won’t know tonight either. 

(via stillwater111)

Every woman has her tipping point, I suppose.  Most never find it but I’m for damn sure glad she did.
Four days a week I’m the resident golf pro and instructor at Disney’s Saratoga Springs resort in Orlando.  About half the guests are families combining business with vacation while someone is at a conference at one of the major hotels, usually the Marriott.  Those with kids often stay here to take advantage of the family-friendly amenities.  That would be her story — husband in meetings all day while she suns at the pool watching her two toddlers; and me.
I’m on the adjacent putting green giving lessons to small knots of aged 50-something convention widows who have never held a putter in their hands in their lives — and probably won’t again after this week.  They don’t hold my interest, but she does. I’m flirting by showing off — juggling a sleeve of three golf balls, bouncing one off the blade of a wedge, setting up “trick putts” as if I was playing billiards.  It’s Middle School behavior but I noticed a couple of days ago that it caught her attention — so I keep it up.
Lesson ends and my 2:00 pm is a no-show, so I crack open a fresh bottle of Dasani water and go through a serious practice routine on my own.  She’s in full-scale watch mode now. But I needed an ally to get her across that tipping point from intrigued to genuinely interested.
Through pure luck, I found it in one of her friends at the pool who’d put two and two together well over an hour ago.  One single line from that anonymous ally was the tipping point:
"Jen, I’ll watch your kids this afternoon if you’d like a break."

Every woman has her tipping point, I suppose.  Most never find it but I’m for damn sure glad she did.

Four days a week I’m the resident golf pro and instructor at Disney’s Saratoga Springs resort in Orlando.  About half the guests are families combining business with vacation while someone is at a conference at one of the major hotels, usually the Marriott.  Those with kids often stay here to take advantage of the family-friendly amenities.  That would be her story — husband in meetings all day while she suns at the pool watching her two toddlers; and me.

I’m on the adjacent putting green giving lessons to small knots of aged 50-something convention widows who have never held a putter in their hands in their lives — and probably won’t again after this week.  They don’t hold my interest, but she does. I’m flirting by showing off — juggling a sleeve of three golf balls, bouncing one off the blade of a wedge, setting up “trick putts” as if I was playing billiards.  It’s Middle School behavior but I noticed a couple of days ago that it caught her attention — so I keep it up.

Lesson ends and my 2:00 pm is a no-show, so I crack open a fresh bottle of Dasani water and go through a serious practice routine on my own.  She’s in full-scale watch mode now. But I needed an ally to get her across that tipping point from intrigued to genuinely interested.

Through pure luck, I found it in one of her friends at the pool who’d put two and two together well over an hour ago.  One single line from that anonymous ally was the tipping point:

"Jen, I’ll watch your kids this afternoon if you’d like a break."

(Source: beautifulwives, via postyourgirlspics)

Nº. 1 of  37