The Try-On Hotwife

Published 8/09/2026

I’ve been running my fashion and style social media accounts for the last year. Making short videos featuring ways to build clothing style is all I do. But it is so much more rewarding than my day job—I’m a talent recruiter.

Blake knows I’d love nothing more than to put in my resignation and focus on growing my business. Ad and sponsored post revenue almost covers the clothes I feature, but that’s it. Not nearly enough to cover things like contracts and accounting software, let alone a salary.

And we need that salary.

We’re a DINK couple—double income, no kids. But life is expensive. Groceries through the roof. We bought our house at the wrong time, just after the pandemic. And our escrowed property taxes basically double our mortgage payment.

I have to bring in income so I can’t quit. Not yet.

But just knowing that I’m building something each day is enough to keep me trying. Slow and steady progress is still progress.

It’s the third week in May when I have my slowest net subscriber growth in months. Just two. When I see that, I cry. Blake holds me until I stop.

“What am I doing wrong?” I say.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Why aren’t people watching then?”

“I don’t think it’s anything you did at all. It’s probably just a fluke. Or they did something to the algorithm.”

But I’m already distracted, half paying attention. I have my phone out and I’m scrolling through my competition’s feeds. Each of them have so many more followers. Not just double or triple my subscriber base. Ten times or more.

And over the last few months these women have started doing something new. Something I can’t do. I show the video to Blake of Courtney00lover in her underwear. She bends over to slip into a dress. I swipe up and another video starts the same way, except now she’s struggling into tight jeans.

“See? It’s not right. Do you think they’re getting more subscribers because they’re in their underwear.”

“Maybe. But it’s probably all men.”

“You’d think that, but no,” I say. “I’ve been watching her comments and she’s getting more of them from both men and women.”

“But you don’t want to do what she’s doing, right?”

“No,” I say, quickly and quite sure.

“Then don’t. Your page is good as it is. I love your content, babe.”

He kisses my forehead and I close my eyes, breathing in the smell of my husband. He is my favorite scent. I’m already calming down.

“I don’t know. Maybe I could do it,” I say. “Maybe part of me wants to do it, to get more viewers.”

“I’ll support you either way.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. There’s something he’s not saying.

“But what would you think if I did that?”

Blake shifts against the sofa, digs his shoulder blades in, and then exhales. His hot breath cascades down my arm. The amount of time that passes is just seconds but the silence concerns me.

“Honestly? The idea of it is kinda hot.”

“What? What do you mean it’s ‘hot?’”

His cheeks redden and he looks down at his folded hands.

“I don’t know. You work hard for your body. Men seeing it and wanting you, but me knowing that you’re mine—that’s hot to me.”

“Really?”

He nods.

“You’d be okay if I was making videos in my underwear for the world to see?”

“It’s only for a second, right? Basically a tease that these guys try to pause, right before you slip into a dress.”

“Well, yeah. That’s true,” I say, thinking. “And really, what’s the difference between underwear and a bikini?”

“Exactly. You would still be doing fashion content—just grabbing their attention first.”

“You want me to do this, don’t you? You can tell me the truth.”

“Yes,” he says.

---

Before my first try-on-haul video, Blake agrees to take me to a new store at the mall. I’d walked it a hundred times and would squeeze Blake’s hand each time, whispering something about how we should go in. All they sell is Italian lingerie, and it is absolutely gorgeous, so sexy.

I didn’t need lingerie-lingerie. Just some elegant panties and bras that matched. These days, I am down to three bras, all white, and I only feel good in one of them really. I almost never buy panties because Blake stuffs five pair in my stocking each Christmas, no doubt from some five for twenty five deal each year. Nothing I have matches and a lot of it is showing some age.

Luckily, this store has exactly what I want. Colored lace and satin in every color a girl could want. I use my credit card and spend more than I should.

Blake doesn’t object. He simply asks that I wear the red pair tonight.

“Why?” I laugh. “Because the bra is sheer?”

“Bingo.”

“I can just show you my nipple. We’re married, you know.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” his voice loud and attracting too much attention from the clerk.

“Shush,” I say, still laughing, but more-so embarrassed now. “If you shut up, I’ll let you see more than a nipple tonight.”

---

For my first video, Blake isn’t here. I told him it was too much pressure. I don’t want an audience, or at least, a live audience. I’m wearing the black lace panties and matching bra. It covers everything but is sexy too.

While I think I look good, I feel like I’m hyper-ventilating, like those guys who breathe loud and fast as they prepare to submerge in an ice bath, except I’m in my underwear and standing in front of a ring light and phone setup.

I know it’s inevitable that people I know—family and colleagues—find this, will see me in my panties. That is terrifying. But not growing my audience, not growing my business? I’ll trade a little dignity for a lot of subscribers.

So I close my eyes and take one final breath. I hold it for a few seconds and then exhale all the fear out.

“Here I come, world. Hope you're ready to see this.”

I tap record.

---

It’s been two hours since I uploaded the video. Two hours of refreshing my stats and seeing the number steadily grow. But now, it’s just exploded. The algorithm must have caught my content.

Normally, my videos get most of their likes within the first week. I average ten thousand likes and a few hundred comments.

This video is different. Within two hours, I’m at twenty thousand likes—double what a week would have gotten me before.

I watch it back on the app, the way anyone else would see it now—not the replay before I posted it, but the real thing, live, comments already stacking up underneath it.

What I see, I like. That probably sounds messed up. But I’m actually proud of how good I look. Blake was right, I’ve worked hard for my body. Nothing wrong with letting people see and appreciate my efforts—The arch of my back, strong and lean, as I reach for the dress. The lace panties frame my hips, hug my mound, show that I’m a woman and I have my secrets just behind this sheer fabric.

My wedding ring catches the ring light just right and sparkles. That will drive home that everyone better behave.

I scroll down before I can second-guess that thought.

Courtney00lover would kill for dat ass 🔥🔥

okay but the STYLING is actually good too?? like she’s not just hot she can dress

husband is a lucky man

more of this pleeeeeease i am BEGGING

I read that last one twice. My thumb hovers just over the reply button and then, I swipe away. I don’t need to say anything. Strangers, hundreds of them already, are looking at me like this. They want to see more of me like this.

I should feel exposed. Instead I feel a thrill. I want to do more videos.

---

Blake is still at league night so I call him and tell him about the numbers. I am unable to hide how excited I am.

“It’s totally working,” I say.

“Wow, babe. That’s awesome.”

“And it just went live. Imagine what tomorrow will bring.”

---

Three weeks later, I’m kind of a pro at this. For the most part, I don’t read the comments. If I do, it’s only the top comments.

And as for the DMs… at first I read every single one. Now I skim, delete, block, repeat. The dick pics stopped surprising me around the fourth video. I’ve also gotten good at sensing them before I see them. Swipe, block, next, the way you’d wave away a fly. Somewhere in my head I’ve filed it under cost of doing business, same as the annoying troll accounts commenting telling me my hips are too wide or my styling has gotten worse since I “started doing this.”

Men who don’t send photos, who don’t make demands, who don’t use their words to try to make me feel small, these are rare.

So rare in fact that when I see this message from man with the username WrightWroteRight?—I read it twice.

“I want it on record that I opened this video strictly for the outfit breakdown and I am a serious follower of your styling content.”

Then:

“Unfortunately, the first few seconds of the video have disrupted my research.”

I actually laugh out loud, alone and on the sofa. I consider a reply, type something, delete, and repeat that until I close the app, sending nothing.

Blake walks in a few moments later and before he sits down, he notices something’s off. He’s doing that thing where one eye squints and the other narrows. I look away.

“What is it?”

“What’s what?” I say.

“Something happened.”

Funny how marriage can put two people so in tune with each other that we both know something is up. I hand him my phone, the message is already up. I watch his face as he reads it, then again. He goes back and watches my video.

“‘Disrupted my research…’ okay, that’s actually pretty good,” Blake says.

“I thought so, too.”

“Sounds like you got an admirer,” he says.

“I have thousands of those now. Tens of thousands. You know how many dick pics I’ve gotten?”

“Wait, people actually send you those?”

“Men,” I say, pausing for effect. “Men send me those. Lots of them.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you for a nice dick.”

“There are nice ones?”

“Probably. I stopped looking.”

“Oh…good,” he says. “So, WrightWroteRight?”

“Yeah?”

“You going to write him back?”

“You want me to write him back.”

Blake winces, then rubs his hand on the back of his head.

“You wouldn’t have brought him up again if you didn’t.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I wouldn’t have.”

“Should I?”

“What do you want to do?”

Blake and I have a few rules and the first one is simple. We are honest, even when it’s hard to be. That’s in my mind as I open my mouth to respond.

“Flirt.”

“Then do it,” he says.

---

Two weeks into the flirting, Sam, aka WrightWroteRight? sends a photo. Not of his face. Just his torso with lean muscle and V’s down into the edge of black boxer briefs. No caption.

I stare at it for a long minute. Then I screenshot it and send it to Blake.

Blake texts back almost immediately: “Show him something.”

I open my camera roll, find a mirror shot from that morning—black lace again, but straps hanging off my shoulders. More of my breasts than anyone else has seen. I crop it so only my body from the collarbones down is visible. I hit send.

Sam’s reply comes in under a minute.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

I type back: “Is it working?”

---

Three months of flirting that started small—careful, a little coy, both of us testing how far the other would let it go—and became something else. Something that lives in conversations I reread on my lunch break at the office, conversations Blake reads too, half-hard and propped up next to me in bed like we’re watching a show together.

Sam knows I’m married. He knows Blake knows about him, about us.

The biggest reason it took me weeks to even bring up meeting in person was fear. Fear of Sam thinking I’m a certain kind of woman. Maybe it was all the messages from men, and some women, criticizing me for how I started showing my body online.

But the more Sam and I talked, the more I knew I wanted to meet him. Sam said he’d love to take the hour-long flight into Philly for the day for a chance at a date with me. My chest flutters just hearing him talk like this, about me.

Things with Blake are good.

This is just something extra.

Something we both want.

Something all three of us want.

In the end the rules were simple, the same honesty rule as always, just pointed somewhere new: I tell him everything. No lying by omission. If I feel unsafe, I leave. If it stops feeling good, I leave.

---

So here I am. A restaurant I picked because it’s small, intimate. There are only six tables and it’s dark enough that I won’t see anyone we know, probably.

I wait outside, reading the month’s financial statement. Things have really changed for my business. If this keeps up, I could see myself quitting my nine-to-five by the end of the year.

My phone buzzes. I swipe out of the app and check my text. Not Sam—Blake.

“good luck. text me when you can. not because I’m worried. because I want to hear about it.”

I almost laugh. Because “I want to hear about it,” when it comes to a date your wife is having with another man is totally a Blake thing to say.

I type back a single heart, and slip the phone into my purse.

When he walks up, head slightly tilted, smile spreading across his face. He’s not what the photos suggested. He’s taller. His shoulders are broad and he’s got this nice…long…torso.

“You’re early,” he says, hand sliding into mine. His handshake is perfect, firm but not painful. “I was trying to be early to impress you.”

“Been here ten minutes.”

“See, now I just look average.”

I look at him from head to toe. “Hardly average.”

He clutches his heart, stumbling back a step, and I laugh—actually laugh. He’s just as quick on his feet as he is in texts.

---

The candle between us is totally working for me—warm light catching the line of his jaw every time he leans in to hear me. His blue eyes stay locked on mine, and I keep losing my train of thought each time I see his pupils change size.

“So, do you have other fashion mamas that you stalk?”

“I told you,” he says, taking a sip of wine, “I was doing research.”

“Sure,” I say, laughing. Air quotes, “Research.”

“You want the honest answer?”

“I’d love it,” I say.

“You popped up. I saw you in your underwear, and couldn’t stop watching, even once you were dressed.”

“That,” I say, my panties soaking as I try to finish the sentence, “is so sweet. Like, truly. I almost didn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“The whole underwear thing. I didn’t used to.”

“I know. I went back and watched every video.”

“Every video?”

“All of ‘em.”

“Because you’re obsessed with me,” I say.

“Obsessed.”

I like this. I like the banter. I like his eyes on me. I like the way those long arms look.

And suddenly I decide.

“Pay the bill. Take me to your hotel room.”

---

The door barely closes behind him before I push him against the wall. I have to step on my tiptoes to reach his lips but it’s worth every bit of effort for that kiss. I breathe him in through my nose, his scent intoxicatingly different than what I’m used to. He smells like the fields in the Yosemite Valley.

His hands slide down my back, finding their home on my hips. He pulls them tight against him, letting, no, ensuring that I feel every bit of his thickening cock. My wetness leaks through my lace panties and I feel it roll down my thigh.

But I can’t stop kissing him. His hands cup my butt. His grip is firm and when he squeezes my ass, I whimper.

I ache, hopping into his arms, my skirt giving as my legs wrap around him. In one quick move, he spins and pins me to the wall. Our lips don’t break apart, even when I gasp as I feel his bulge press against my soaked panties.

I can’t take it.

No, that’s wrong.

I want to take it.

I look down between us as my hands fumble sloppily—my growing hunger making this simple task seem to take forever—with his belt. But I get it. Then flick his button open and yank his zipper down. I hook my fingers beneath his pants and slide everything down.

When his cock springs free, weighty and responsive, it bounces and smacks

heavily against my bare thigh.

“Goddamn,” I say. “I didn’t know they came that thick.”

“Think you can handle it?” he says, smirking.

“I want to try.”

I steer it toward my panties, brushing the wide tip there. Prying at the edge of the elastic. Tracing the shape of my labia with him. I feel a pulse surge through him and then his tip spurts a clear stream onto my lace. It dissolves instantly, mixing with my wetness.

“See what you do to me?” he says. “Making me leak already.”

I slide my panties to the side and let his tip kiss my slick lips.

“Feel what you do to me?” I say.

“Fuck, that is-“

I have him by his hips and I pull my body to his, taking some of his tip into me. He goes silent, unable to finish his thought.

“Like that,” I say, tongue out to tease him.

“My god.”

“You mean, ‘my goddess.’” And I angle my hip to take a little more.

I feel the stretch now as his hard-as-steel shaft slips between my folds. It’s a lot. Like, a real lot. I bite my lip, shifting my hips a little this way, a little that.

I can’t take my eyes off his cock and how much of him I’ve already taken. But I don’t plan to stop until I take as much as my body will fit.

“To the bed,” I say.

He nods and I arch my back against the wall and push off with my hands. With ease, he takes long strides to the bed. He’s about to drop me onto my back when I shake my head.

“I want to be on top.”

I push off of him and the noise of suction from his cock leaving my pussy is so loud that I know he heard that. He only grins, smug, proud even.

I roll my eyes and push him onto his back. I straddle his waist and with one hand, impale myself on his girth.

“Fuck,” I say, breath leaving me as I take him in again.

This is a challenge. He’s a challenge. For sure the biggest I’ve ever had.

But this is the year of me just going for it. So I brace myself with palms on his chest, skin-to-skin, and shimmy further down his cock.

He lets out a guttural groan as he watches his shaft part me, stretching my lips thin and taut. My body molds to his and just the sight, the thought of it is enough to lead me to the very edge.

I haven’t even taken it all yet, haven’t even pumped him a few times, and my body already threatens orgasm.

His hands slide up my legs, my waist, and settle on my shoulders.

“Breathe in,” he says. I do what he says. “Relax, and breathe out slowly.”

I nod and as I exhale, close my eyes, letting the pressure I’ve been feeling just fucking go.

And then, he pulls my shoulders down. In one quick move, my clit meets his skin. I’ve done it. I have all of him in me.

“Nice trick,” I say.

“Looked like you needed some guidance.”

I smack his chest playfully, I swear. Then I settle my hands on him again and slowly learn what works for our bodies—a half rock, half lift. That lets the length of him with all those glorious veins, drag along the right spot within me. I grind my throbbing clit into his warm flesh. That’s what is working. That’s what makes me bite my lip and utter “fuck” more than five times.

The tension in my belly starts shifting lower, then tightening until I can barely stand the pressure. My arms shake. My breath short, desperate.

A primal sound reverberates through me.

He knows I’m close and bless the man; he takes my hips and just gives me a little extra help. Those firm hands help roll me along him, help press my clit to him a little more, just as everything within me snaps. My nails dig pink trenches down his chest. My thighs tremble. He pulses within me as he calls my name through gritted teeth. His back arches up from the bed, his hips lift me up just as I feel his stream flood my womb.

“Yes,” I cry.

I squeeze my pelvic muscles tight and let the throbbing of his cock echo through me, melting with my own waves of pleasure.

He collapses weakly on the bed, spent.

I smile. But I’m not done. I squeeze again, this time lifting my hips and milking him. Let go and take him again. And milk him once more.

I wanted to be sure I got every last drop.

---

While Sam is grabbing us waters from the lobby, I take a quick selfie from bed, ruined and leaning. I let the camera see it all and then, I send it to Blake.

“My beautiful wife.”

“His gaping prize,” I reply.