Hotwife Talking Here

Hotwife Talking Here

This is me talking here. Once I get done typing out these words, everything is going straight to the internet. It’s late already. My husband and my two kids are all in bed asleep, while I’m down in the basement library typing this confession.

I am a hotwife. I’ve got the tattoos, the outfits, and customised jewellery to prove my word. As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be a freak of a hotwife. My husband knows it, too. He knew about it when we began dating, and after we got married. He’s supported me through this endeavour, and I will always love and cherish him for sticking by me.

The road wasn’t easy. There were times I sat and questioned myself whether seriously if this was something I wanted to explore. If there was a chance for me to say no, I would have. But I’ve always considered myself a woman who loves strong, black men.

Yes, I love strong, black men. They are the only ones capable of pleasuring me the way I need to be pleasured. Whenever I’m with them, I’m like a piece of treasure to be used however they want and wherever. I’ve got a Queen of Spades tattoo on my butt and on my ankle, and I’m proud revealing it to whichever man wants to have a go at me.

It was a Black man that took my virginity. I was eighteen, and since then I’ve never looked back ever. The weird thing is I don’t remember much about how it happened. Somewhere, it’s gotten lost in the maze of wild sexual encounters I’ve had since. It gets hard remembering all the black lovers I have been with; but I do keep in mind some of the most memorable ones.

I do have a presence on social media, and I have encountered many white husbands who’ve seen my videos, read my blog, and admitted how they wish they have a woman like me for a wife or girlfriend. Someone they can spoil and do anything for just to watch them get pleasured by black men. I do sympathise with many of these men. I grasp their pain and frustration. There’s so many white women out there whose desires have long gone to sleep that the only way you realise the passion they’ve got inside them is to throw in a dynamite of black passion to blow it up.

Dumb, lazy women is what I call them.

I despise dumb, lazy women.

Women who don’t want to wake up and admit their sexual reality.

The reality is that white men are often lacking in bed. Not just lacking, but lazy and pathetic. My husband knows this, and with him I don’t ever hide my tongue from letting him be aware of the truth. White men sacrificed their sexual appetite for a wealth of privilege ages ago. White men even outlawed dancing when they first arrived at the New World. Can you believe that? They outlawed dancing, because those pathetic Puritan zealots thought it was the work of the Devil.

But they couldn’t take that away from black men. Black men kept their passion; passion is part of a Black man’s DNA; it’s enshrined in their masculinity. You see it and you feel it whenever you get close to them. When you watch the way they talk, the way they walk – it’s part of their aura. Us, white women, have been starved of real passion for centuries. It’s about time we got to offering ourselves to the real men who desire them.

My husband loves finding suitable Black men to pleasure me. I’ve kinda slowed down due to having kids, but that’s never stopped me for long. I know what I’m about, and never ashamed of it. I love being fulfilled, and I love giving fulfilment to whichever Black god(s) that owns me. I love going shopping for sexy underwear and lingerie, anything salacious enough to entice my lover(s).

My best times is inviting black men over to the house to make love to me everywhere. That usually happens when my kids are on holiday, and my husband ships them off to be with my parents or his. We go clubbing, and the night never ends until I find the right type of bull I seek. We jump into the backseat with my husband maintains the wheel while I’m being pleasured all the way to the house. I’ve been intimate with many black men, swallowed and choked on different sizes, I’m surprised I haven’t grown a second pussy down my throat.

This sort of talk is bound to upset some women who might read it (especially the dumb, lazy ones), but I hope it gets to inspire them also. It’s about time they start making their bodies useful, and know what it’s about. We were made from passion and made for passion. My tits aren’t just for breastfeeding, but for pleasure-feeding, too. Our men want to see us happy, and if they can’t make us happy, then it’s even better they hook us up with someone who can.

I love the scent of a black man every morning. I go out jogging and my eyes roam about, looking for anyone wanting to take me on. When I see a black man hooking up with a white woman, I feel a dig inside my gut wishing it was me. If a black man stops to say hi to me, I feel my pores gush with sweat as I imagine what he might look like naked in bed.

This isn’t a mere confession, as I thought it would be. It’s a call to arms, for all you white women out there (don’t care if you’re a young Snowbunny, or a Cougar, MILF, or GILF) to go out and have at it at any lone black man you find. Keep your body active, tell your husbands what sort of fun you want to have henceforth. If he tries dissuading you, then go out and cheat on his ass. If he was hitting you right in bed, then you wouldn’t be thinking of black men in the first place.

Am I right?