Hannah — AI by author

Given away to another man…

Hannah and Ben’s hypothetical game suddenly turns very real

I stand beside my husband, Ben, in the glittering ballroom of the hotel, the Christmas party humming around us like a living thing. My sequined dress clings to my slim frame, the deep emerald fabric shimmering under the chandeliers, slits up both sides revealing the patterned black stockings and the strappy black heels that make my legs look endless. I’m forty-two, but tonight I feel the kind of alive I haven’t felt in years. Ben, handsome in his tailored charcoal suit, keeps one hand possessively on the small of my back. We’ve played this game before — fantasies whispered in the dark after mind-blowing sex, picking out strangers we’d never actually touch. Just words. Just heat.

My eyes drift across the room again, and there he is. Silver at the temples, broad shoulders filling a midnight-blue suit, early fifties maybe, with the kind of quiet confidence that makes the air feel thicker. I glance away too quickly. Ben notices, of course. He always does.

“Is he one?” he murmurs against my ear, voice low and amused.

I nod once, cheeks already warming. “Hypothetically.”

Later, as the band shifts into something slower and the crowd thins, the man passes close enough that Ben steps forward with an easy smile. “Richard? Didn’t expect to see you here.”

My stomach drops. They know each other — colleagues from the London office, it turns out. Polite handshakes, small talk about quarterly targets. Richard’s gaze slides to me, lingers on the curve of my neck, the way the dress dips low between my breasts. “You must be the famous Hannah,” he says, voice warm and rough. “Ben’s a lucky man.”

Ben’s hand tightens on my waist. “The way my wife is looking at you,” he says casually, as if commenting on the weather, “I suspect she’d quite like to make you a lucky man too.”

The words land like a spark on dry tinder. Horror flashes through me — he did not just say that — followed by a rush of fury, then a dark, liquid thrill that pools hot between my legs. I freeze, cheeks burning, staring at Ben like he’s lost his mind. He meets my eyes, calm and certain, and tilts his head.

“Isn’t that right, honey?”

My lips part. No sound comes. My body answers instead: I tilt my head the tiniest fraction toward Richard, an involuntary little invitation I don’t mean to give but don’t take back. The heat between my thighs flares brighter.

Ben’s arm slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His breath brushes my ear. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I won’t offer to let him take you to his room.”

I don’t speak. I can’t. My heart hammers; I’ve only ever had Ben inside me. Twenty-two years of marriage, a kinky, filthy, wonderful sex life, and yet the idea of another man’s hands on me feels both terrifying and electric. I stay silent.

Ben turns to Richard, voice steady. “Would you like to take Hannah to your room for a while?”

Richard’s eyes flick between us, surprise melting into raw hunger. He nods once.

Ben takes my wrist — gentle, deliberate — and places my hand in Richard’s. “She’s all yours. Send her home before the sun comes up.”

The thrill of being offered, handed over like that, shoots straight through me. Richard’s fingers close around my wrist, warm and firm. Our eyes lock. Ben slips away into the crowd without another word.

Richard’s voice is low. “Was that a joke?”

I summon every scrap of courage I have left. “No,” I whisper, biting my lip.

The elevator ride is silent, charged. Richard’s thumb strokes the inside of my wrist. My pulse races under his touch. When the door to his suite clicks shut behind us, the world narrows to just the two of us.

He doesn’t rush. He turns me slowly to face him, eyes drinking me in like I’m something precious and filthy at once. “You’re even more beautiful up close,” he murmurs. His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress. The sequins whisper as the fabric parts, cool air kissing my spine. He peels it down my shoulders, over my breasts — small, firm, nipples already tight — and lets it pool at my feet. I step out, standing in nothing but the thong, patterned stockings, and heels. His gaze drags over every inch of my slim, toned body. I feel exposed, desired, and seen. A fresh ache blooms low in my belly.

“You’re trembling,” he says softly, almost reverent. His thumbs brush my nipples; I gasp. Then he sinks to one knee, removing my heels, then rolling the stockings down my legs one at a time, lips following the path of his fingers along my thighs. When the thong slides off, I’m completely bare. He stands again, eyes dark. “Perfect.”

My turn. I step close, hands shaking only a little as I loosen his tie, then unbutton his shirt. I look up into his eyes the whole time, revealing the broad chest, the faint trail of hair leading down. I push the shirt off his shoulders, then sink to my knees exactly as I did in my fantasies. His trousers drop. His cock — thicker than Ben’s, heavier — springs free. The second cock I’ve ever touched. I wrap my fingers around it, feeling its heat, its weight. Nervousness and hunger war inside me. I lean in, part my lips, and take him into my mouth.

The taste of him — salt and skin — makes me moan. At first, I’m tentative, exploring, but the low groan he gives me unlocks something. My arousal takes the wheel. I suck harder, deeper, letting my tongue swirl, hollowing my cheeks. His hand finds my hair, guiding but not forcing. The filthy sounds of my mouth working him fill the room. I’m convinced I’m dripping down my thighs already.

Richard pulls me up, kisses me hard, then walks me backwards to the bed. He lays me down, spreads my legs, and sinks into me in one slow, relentless push, almost growling as he sees and hears my reaction. Missionary. I cry out at the stretch, the fullness, staring up at him with eyes willing him to continue. He fucks me deep and steady, eyes locked on mine, watching every flicker of pleasure on my face. Then he flips me, pulls my hips up — doggy, his hands gripping my ass as he drives in harder, deeper. I push back against him, greedy now, desperate for more. Spooning next, his chest to my back, one arm banded around me, fingers rolling my nipple while he grinds deep. Then he drags me off the bed, bends me over the back of the armchair, and fucks me so hard the legs scrape the carpet. Then, beautifully, against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back as he pins me there and pounds up into me. I’m moaning the whole time, desperate, willing. I ache in the best ways, and in the best places. I’ve said things to him I have only ever said to my husband before. ‘Harder, deeper, faster, fuck me, yes…’

Richard carries me back to the bed, pins my wrists above my head, and fucks me until we both shatter — my back arching, my orgasm ripping through me in waves, his cock pulsing deep inside as he groans my name.

I lie there beside him, chest heaving, skin slick, feeling utterly remade. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. I speak without thought. “Sun won’t be up for hours.”

He smiles, lazy and satisfied. “Good. I want to fuck you some more.”

I smile at him and slip off the bed, legs unsteady, and pad to the bathroom naked and completely unashamed. A quick shower rinses the evidence from my thighs, but the ache between my legs only deepens at the thought that there is more to come. When I return, he’s lying there naked, watching me walk towards him. I climb onto the bed, kiss my way down his chest, his stomach, until his cock is in my mouth again. I suck him slow and wet until he’s rock-hard. I’m ready for more, and I want it all. I look up, lips glistening. “Got any lube?”

He frowns and shakes his head. I smile, wicked now. “Lucky for you, I carry some in my purse.”

I fetch it, quickly climb back onto all fours beside him, and slick my ass generously while he watches with fire in his eyes. “Now you can put it anywhere.”

The next hour is pure carnal lust. Richard slides into my ass, stretching me wider than I am used to, slow at first, then harder. I’m all encouragement. He flips me onto my back, my legs over his shoulders, then doggy again, then riding him reverse while he grips my hips and slams up into me. Always in my ass this time. The stretch, the filth, the raw intensity — I come twice, rubbing my clit with him inside me, before he finally floods my ass with a guttural groan. I lie there leaking him from my body, the second man I’ve ever… and yet it feels like something I was born to do. To be offered to men by my gorgeous husband.

We doze, tangled and naked. Then Richard fucks me again — lazy and slow this time, until the sky outside begins to lighten, and my pussy leaks his come once more.

I slip back into my dress, stockings, and heels. My hair is a mess, my lips swollen, my body deliciously sore. I lean down, kiss him once more, and leave without a word. The transaction is complete.

Our hotel room door is unlocked. I step inside. Ben is sitting on the edge of the bed, completely naked, cock hard and waiting. His eyes rake over me — flushed cheeks, ruined makeup, the faint marks on my wrists from Richard’s grip.

He stands, pulls me close, and growls against my mouth, “Tell me everything while I reclaim what’s mine.”

I smile, already wet again, and push him back onto the bed as I strip naked for him. He pulls me onto the bed and pins me, slamming into me harder than I think he ever has. I wrap my legs around him and beg for more as Richard’s come, still lingering in my pussy, helps to add lubrication to what my husband is doing to me.

Before I even try to tell him what I’ve done between my cries and squeals of pleasure, he looks down into my eyes.

‘Would you do it again?’

I nod. “I pick. You hand me over. I’ll fuck.”

What follows is some of the best sex of my life.

Hi! It’s P.T. I do hope you enjoyed this short story. Did you know that we writers thrive on your feedback? — You can clap up to 50 times (please do), highlight your favourite passages, and I love reading your comments. It helps our work be seen and also helps us grow as writers.