Blowing my bull when I’m supposed to be working [hotwife perspective]

“I just pulled up.”
“Come take me away — just pretend you’re a client, please.”

I was already at the coffee shop, iPad open, pretending to focus on work with my business partner. But underneath the surface, I was buzzing with anticipation. It’s not nerves anymore, it’s butterflies for BBC.

He walked in and locked eyes with me. My pussy clenched instantly. He slid into the seat across from me, cool as ever, and introduced himself as a “client.” My partner tilted her head, confused, but the way I looked at him gave it all away. I bit my lip, and she knew. This wasn’t business. This was one of my bulls.

I barely lasted another minute before closing my iPad. I told her I had to step away and left with him like I couldn’t help myself. He climbed into my passenger seat, and we were kissing before I even started the car. My body was already giving in. I drove us across the street to the back of the shopping center, the whole time my heart racing.

The second I parked, I slid down and buried my mouth on his big, thick cock. God, the taste, the weight of it filling my throat — it’s become something I crave more than anything. I lost myself in it, slurping and sucking like an addict who needed her fix. Every moan from him just pushed me deeper, hungrier, until I felt him tense up.

He exploded in my mouth, thick and hot, and I swallowed every drop like it was exactly what I’d been waiting for all day. Feeling it slide down my throat sent shivers through my whole body. I actually came right there, trembling in my seat with his cum in my mouth, so satisfied and so full I couldn’t stop smiling.

I know I should’ve gone back to work, but I sat there in the car, licking my lips, feeling way too happy and spent. Every time I think I’ve had enough, I need more. Honestly, I think I’m addicted to BBC. The more I have it, the more I crave it.

And while I always tell my husband everything… lately it’s been happening more and more. Sometimes I wait before I confess, not because I want to hide it, but because I’m not sure how he’d feel if he knew just how often I’m getting carried away. Maybe he already knows. Maybe he even loves that I can’t stop.