The Business Trip: Dangerous Games

**Author's note:**

On a routine business trip, Ben expects late nights and video calls - not his wife showing up dressed like a slut, acting like a stranger, and hungry for attention that isn't his. But when Tasha turns fantasy into reality, Ben finds himself playing a game he didn't design... and might not control.

This is another story of Tasha and Ben, a hotwife vixen and her stag - a couple who love to share, and who thrive on being watched. But this time, the lines blur. This time, the game goes somewhere else.

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Ben lay on the bed of his hotel room, shirt undone, trousers on the chair. The room was expensively minimal. Soft rock played from the built-in speaker. He had a bottled beer beside him and the dull glow of the city skyline bled through the window.

Another fucking client dinner. Another day talking bullshit with people he'd rather ignore.

What he wanted - what he really wanted - was about to appear on his screen.

His phone buzzed.

Tasha. His wife.

He smiled as he answered. Her voice came through first, low and playful.

"Miss me?"

Then the video kicked in.

Tasha was at home in bed. His home. Their bed. She wore one of his old grey T-shirts, stretched across her large tits, no bra, and her legs were bare - the smooth, inked line of her thigh just visible beneath the duvet.

Her thick brunette hair was loose around her face. No makeup. Just flushed cheeks, and those sharp green eyes.

Ben shifted under the covers.

"Fuck," he said. "Look at you."

She stretched slowly, deliberately - arms overhead, back arched, shirt riding up. Just enough for him to catch the top of her black thong. Her nipples strained beneath the cotton.

"I had wine," she said. "Then a shower. Then I got lonely."

Ben took a sip of beer. "Dangerous combination."

She smiled. "Want to see how dangerous?"

His hand moved beneath the duvet. "Show me."

She shifted, phone propped on the pillow now. One hand played lazily with her breast, the other trailing down her stomach beneath the shirt.

Ben pushed his duvet back, revealing himself - already half-hard, penis thick in his hand.

"I was thinking about you," she said softly. "Sitting in that boring fucking hotel, pretending you don't want to bend the waitress over the table."

He laughed. "She was about sixty."

"I've seen your search history."

He stroked himself lazily. "Touch yourself."

"I already am," she whispered.

She pulled the duvet down. Her tiny black thong was already dark with damp. She peeled it aside with one finger, revealing her soaked slit, then reached for the black curved vibrator from the drawer.

"I was thinking," she said, sliding it in with a soft moan, "maybe I surprise you tomorrow night."

Ben tensed. "Yeah?"

"Show up at your hotel. Dressed like a fucking whore."

"Jesus."

"I'll come into the bar, find you, but I won't say a word. I won't even look at you. I'll pretend I've never met you."

Ben was stroking harder now, eyes fixed on her. The fantasy dug in deep.

"I'll sit alone," she went on, fucking herself slowly. "In heels. No knickers. Let some poor bastard buy me a drink. And when I'm good and ready, I'll walk up to you, whisper in your ear... and tell you I'm dripping."

Ben groaned. "Fuck, Tasha...."

"I'll ask if you want to take me upstairs. Just for one night. One fuck."

Her hips arched. She was getting close now - breath jagged, lips parted.

"And if you do," she gasped, "I'll let you have me like a stranger. No names. No history. Just... fuck me. Like you don't know anything about me."

Ben came with a deep, guttural grunt, cock twitching as he spilled cum across his stomach.

Tasha was only seconds behind - thighs clenching, the toy buzzing softly as she came, eyes fluttering shut.

For a few seconds, the call was silent. Just the sound of breathing. Distant rock.

Then she looked back at the camera. Smiled.

"Mmmm, I needed that. Sleep tight, baby," she said. "And keep your eyes open tomorrow night. You never know...."

She ended the call before he could say another word.

***

Later the next day Ben sat in the bar area with a glass in hand, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loose, top two buttons undone. It had been a long day of boardrooms and bullshit - enough corporate small talk to make his brain bleed.

He wasn't expecting anything tonight. Maybe a steak. Perhaps room service. Definitely a wank.

Then, without warning, his night changed.

It started with a sound. The unmistakable clack of boots on marble - sharp, rhythmic, and confident. Not the hesitant shuffle of hotel guests or the totter of stilettos.

This was purposeful and confident.

He looked up. And then he froze.

She'd walked in like she owned the place.

Tasha. His Tasha.

She wore her white cowboy boots, the ones that hugged her calves and announced trouble with every step. A wine-coloured PVC mini skirt clung to her hips - glossy, tight, and so short it barely covered the curve of her arse. Her top - if you could call it that - was a black leather bralette, hugging her big, natural tits, her nipples clearly hard beneath the material. No bra. No modesty.

Her body was bold and unapologetic - curves that dared you to stare, a softness that said touch me and see what happens. She looked like a woman younger than her late thirties, but who'd been loved hard, fucked better, and was now entirely her own. Her skin was marked in the right places - artistic tattoos on her arms, her thigh, hints of ink beneath the leather - enough to suggest not just danger, but experience.

Tonight her hair was wild. Lips glossed. Eyes rimmed dark.

She didn't even look at him.

Ben's cock surged in his trousers. He couldn't believe she had come, just like she'd teased. And fuck, she looked hot. He shifted on the barstool, trying to mask his growing erection with his jacket.

She took a seat across the bar. Crossed one bare thigh over the other, PVC hem riding even higher on her leg.

Two men noticed her immediately. Then four. Then the whole fucking bar.

Ben watched in stunned silence, amused and aroused, as a man in a suit made the first move.

Polite smile. Whiskey in hand. Tasha accepted the drink. Laughed at something he said. He touched her hair. She let her fingers rest just a little too long on his wrist.

She still hadn't even glanced at Ben.

And that was the hottest, most fucked-up thing in the world.

His wife - the love of his life - was across the room, dressed like a slut, pretending she didn't know him... and entertaining offers from strangers.

They played together - and with others - frequently. He loved to share her, and she him. But this was different to their normal game. He couldn't deny he was excited.

His jaw clenched. His cock pulsed. And all he could do was sit and watch as these men hit on her and she lapped it up.

Tasha laughed again. Not loud, not forced, but the kind of soft, sultry sound that made every man within earshot want to know the punchline.

The guy she was talking to - tall, mid-forties, sharp suit - leaned in closer. Confident. His fingers brushed the inside of her arm as he handed her another drink. She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.

Instead, she took a slow sip, lips wrapping around the glass deliberately, tongue flicking over the rim when she was done. Her lipstick left a faint mark. Her eyes never even moved toward Ben.

Ben gripped his glass tighter.

He could feel the shift. The heat building behind his ribs. His cock was throbbing in his trousers, hard against the fabric. He didn't know if he wanted to go over there and fuck her senseless or drag her upstairs and remind her exactly who she was married to.

Another man approached. Younger with a confident swagger. Tight grey tee stretched across his chest and muscled arms, jeans slung low. The kind of lad who thought he was god's gift to whatever. He joined the conversation with a grin and a comment Ben couldn't hear.

Tasha turned slightly toward him on the barstool. Crossed her legs the other way. Her skirt shifted higher - now just barely covering her pussy.

The younger guy's eyes dropped. He said something.

She smirked.

Ben's heart thudded.

The three of them talked for a few more minutes. Then the suited one got up and left - a handshake, a smile, nothing more.

But the younger stayed.

He leaned closer.

Tasha didn't move.

Ben's breath caught as he saw her hand drift casually onto the guy's knee. Her fingers tapped against the denim. Her boot slid against his.

Then, without warning, the younger man leaned in and kissed her full on.

Tasha didn't stop him. instead she kissed him back.

Not a peck. Not a tease. A deep, open-mouthed kiss that left her lipstick smudged and her chest heaving slightly when they pulled apart.

Ben's world tilted.

He was rock hard - painfully so - his cock pulsing against the waistband of his trousers. His hand was shaking. He set down his drink before he dropped it.

She had just kissed another man, in front of him and without them agreeing it, like Ben didn't exist. And she was loving every second of it.

They talked quietly for a while longer. Then they stood up together. The guy said something - she nodded.

And just like that, they walked off - out of the bar and out of view.

Ben didn't move. He sat frozen, staring at the doorway where they'd gone. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His knuckles white on the bar.

He had no idea where she'd gone.

And the idea that she might be on her way upstairs right now - in a stranger's room, dress hitched up, bralette pulled down, riding someone else's cock - made him feel like he was about to explode.

His stomach churned. His heart pounded.

And yet... his cock was still hard. Still aching.

Ben sat in silence, waiting and burning.

***

Ben had barely moved.

It had been half an hour - maybe more. His drink was untouched. His mind chewing itself raw.

He didn't know what he expected.

For her not to come back?

For her to come find him, smiling, laughing, whispering "just a game, baby..."?

He didn't know. Not until she reappeared.

There she was. Tasha.

Striding back into the bar like she'd never been away.

Alone.

Ben's eyes tracked every movement as she approached - and immediately, he knew.

Her hair was messier. Tousled. A little damp around the temples. Her lipstick had been reapplied - but hastily. Slightly uneven.

Her legs glistened faintly in the low light. And the PVC skirt... it was sitting just a little higher on one hip now. Twisted. Rumpled. The edge of her bralette strap had slipped slightly off her shoulder.

She looked like a woman who had just been fucked hard against a wall.

And still she didn't look at him.

She returned to the same stool. Crossed her legs. Ordered another drink. The bartender didn't even flinch - just nodded, poured, slid it across.

She sipped. Slowly. Casually.

Ben's throat was dry. His cock throbbed in his trousers.

He watched her legs shift as she crossed and uncrossed them - slow, casual, filthy. The skirt tugged up with the movement, revealing bare thigh, smooth and glowing under the bar lights.

And now... he could swear he saw it.

A faint sheen. A glisten. The evidence of what she'd just done.

From him?

No.

From someone else.

Could it really be? Or was his mind just fucking with him?

Another man had just fucked his wife - his Tasha - and now she sat in front of him, silent, radiant, legs spread just enough, pretending like he was nothing more than background noise.

The room didn't know. But he did.

She reached into her clutch and reapplied her lip gloss. Slow, deliberate strokes. Watching her reflection in the back of a polished wine bottle.

Then she smiled to herself.

Ben stood. Walked toward her. Every step measured.

She looked up as he approached - not with warmth, nor with recognition.

Just curiosity. Cool.

The stranger act was still on.

"Hi," she said, head tilted, lips glistening. "You lost?"

Ben stared at her, silent. His chest was rising. Falling.

"You look tense," she said. "Maybe you need a drink."

Still no smile. Still no crack in the act.

She turned back to her glass, sipping, eyes sliding away.

Ben's fists clenched at his sides. Rage. Lust. Jealousy. Worship. All of it bubbled through him.

He had never wanted her more.

***

Ben stood beside her, silent for a beat too long.

Tasha didn't look at him right away. She took another sip from her glass, her eyes scanning the room as if he weren't even there. Her legs were still crossed, her boot swinging idly, shiny little skirt riding so high he could see the faintest glisten between her thighs every time it shifted.

They'd played games before. Plenty of times.

He'd watched her fuck strangers. Had picked them together. Sometimes she'd let him choose the man. Sometimes she chose the woman. He loved it - the thrill of seeing her taken, the rawness of it. Sharing her, because she deserved to be shared. Tasha was his. Always. Even when she was moaning under someone else.

But this? This was different.

Because tonight... he hadn't watched. They hadn't chosen together.

Tonight she'd disappeared.

And now here she was - radiant, freshly fucked, and pretending he didn't exist.

It was still a game. But it felt dangerous. Very, very dangerous indeed.

Then she finally turned - just a little. Not enough to open herself up. Just enough to deliver a line.

"Didn't expect you to be so shy."

Her voice was like velvet.

Ben swallowed hard. "You here with someone?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Not anymore."

The words hit like a slap. He felt it in his chest - and in his cock.

She leaned her elbows on the bar, pushing her tits together in the tight leather bralette. Her cleavage was outrageous. Her skin still flushed. The base of her throat shimmered with a sheen of sweat.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Ben."

She smiled, a dark, knowing curl of her lips.

"Hi Ben. I'm Tasha," she said evenly.

Just her name, raw and brazen.

Because this wasn't a lie. It was a performance. And one they both knew could go anywhere.

Ben sat. Slowly. Next to her, but not too close. He could smell her now - not perfume. Not just sex. Sex and someone else's cologne.

"What you doing here?" she asked.

He had to swallow twice before he could speak.

"Business trip."

She glanced at him. "Mmm. Sounds boring."

"It was."

"Well, lucky me," she said, biting her bottom lip lightly. "You're here now."

Ben shifted on the stool. His cock was solid.

She noticed.

Her eyes flicked down - just once - to the bulge pressing at his trousers. Her smile widened.

"You've been watching me for a while," she said softly.

"Yeah."

"You like what you see?"

He didn't answer.

She leaned in, lips close to his ear, her voice a whisper he felt in his spine.

"Do you want to take me upstairs and fuck me, Ben, fuck me like your wife won't let you?"

Ben's pulse thumped. he didn't reply for a moment then, simply, he said "Yes."

She pulled back. Sipped her drink again. Then slid off the stool, boots clicking on the floor.

"Then follow me," she said.

She walked ahead of him - hips rolling, skirt clinging, not looking back once.

Ben followed. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure who was in control.

***

The corridor was quiet, carpet muffling their steps. Tasha led, her stride slow, hips swaying in deliberate rhythm.

Ben followed her past his own room - through the corridors, to hers.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Tasha didn't speak.

She walked to the bed with the confidence of a woman who knew she was being watched - legs long, cowboy boots clicking, that skirt stretched tight over her arse, glinting with every shift of light.

Ben followed, silent and burning.

She didn't turn around.

She just stood at the foot of the bed and said, "Well?"

Her voice was cool, detached and teasing.

"You followed me," she continued. "So either you're here to fuck me, or you're lost. Which is it?"

Ben stepped closer.

He could see the way the skirt bunched slightly, like she'd pulled it up in a hurry and not bothered to smooth it down.

She turned.

Arched an eyebrow.

"You gonna say something?"

Ben's voice came out low and rough.

"You let him fuck you."

She smiled. "I let a man fuck me. I don't know who you are, remember?"

Ben stiffened in his stance. His cock twitched.

"You want to pretend I'm a stranger?" he asked.

"I want you to fuck me like one," she replied.

Then she stepped forward, took his hand, and pressed it between her legs.

He groaned.

She was soaked and warm.

"I need cock," she said. "Now."

Ben shoved her onto the bed.

She landed with a bounce, legs spreading, skirt riding up to the curve of her hips, her bare, swollen pussy glistening beneath it.

He dropped his trousers, his cock punching free, thick and hard, already slick at the tip.

"Fuck," she said, "you're massive. so much bigger than my husband."

He crawled over her, took one of her wrists and pinned it to the bed.

Her eyes gleamed.

"You gonna be rough, baby?" she whispered.

He didn't answer. He just lined up and slammed into her in one thrust.

She cried out.

Her pussy sucked him in like it had been waiting all night. She gripped his forearms, boots still on, legs high, her thighs trembling.

"Fuck, yes... that's it... that's it...."

Ben fucked her like a stranger who had something to prove.

The bed thudded against the wall. His hands slid beneath the PVC, grabbing her hips, yanking her onto him with every stroke.

Her tits bounced beneath the bralette, nipples straining against the leather.

"You don't know me," he growled, hips snapping hard.

She gasped, eyes rolling.

"No... I don't... you're just some dirty fucking man with a big dick who saw me at the bar and wanted a fuck his wife wouldn't give him...."

"You're just a slut in a skirt," he snarled, pulling it tighter around her waist as he drove into her, making her gasp.

"Yes! Fuck me like one!"

He bent down, bit her shoulder, made her yelp.

She clawed his back, her boots locked around his hips, dragging him deeper.

Then he slowed - just enough to grind into her.

She whimpered and shook.

He grabbed her throat - gentle but firm - and whispered, "Did he fuck you like this?"

"No," she moaned. "No one has fucked me like this...."

Ben growled, slammed into her with such force the headboard cracked.

She shattered. Body arching, legs shaking, voice gone.

Her pussy milked his cock in spasms - pulling, squeezing, begging him to finish.

He lost control.

He grabbed her arse, feeling the texture of the skirt under his fingers.

Fucked her full, driving his cock into her as far as he could. His cum poured inside her - filling her, coating her walls, owning her.

She lay beneath him, gasping, laughing, ruined.

Her skirt still bunched at her waist. Boots still on. Makeup smeared.

Cum dripping out around his still half-hard cock.

She looked up, eyes glittering.

"Stranger," she whispered, "you can fuck me anytime."

***

The room was thick with the scent of sex and sleep when they awoke.

The sheets were kicked off, twisted at their feet. The pillows were damp from sweat. The bed itself an absolute mess.

Ben lay on his back, bare skin cooling under the whisper of air con. One arm behind his head, the other resting across the warm, naked dip of Tasha's waist.

The light coming through the curtains was soft, barely morning.

Tasha was still pressed against him, her leg thrown over his thigh, tits resting against his ribs, breath slow and heavy against his skin. Her thick brunette hair was tangled across the pillow.

Ben glanced down.

Her inner thighs were marked with faint red prints - his hands, his hips, his mouth. Her bralette lay across the lamp, PVC skirt in a puddle on the floor, one of her boots half up on the windowsill where it had landed.

His cock was soft now, but even in the quiet he could feel the pulse of her against his side.

She stirred. Her hand slipped across his chest, fingers tracing the outline of his collarbone.

Then her voice. "Morning."

He looked down. She kissed his chest.

"You stayed," she murmured.

"You didn't leave me much choice."

She smiled without opening her eyes. "You always have a choice."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, without looking at her, Ben said, "You fucked him."

She didn't flinch.

"Mhm," she said.

"Upstairs?"

"Yep."

"You let him come inside you?"

She opened her eyes, looked up at him. "No. He wore a condom."

Ben exhaled through his nose.

She propped herself up on one elbow, brushing hair back from her face.

"He wasn't anywhere near as big as you if that's what you're worried about," she said. "And he didn't fuck me as good as you do. But he was game. Would've gone all night if I'd let him."

Ben's jaw tightened. "Why didn't you?"

She smirked. "Because I didn't want more. I wanted you."

He stared at the ceiling.

"It's not that you fucked him," he said finally. "We do that at all the time. It's just that we didn't talk about it. Didn't make the decision together."

"That was the game," she said. "I didn't know you. So how could I ask permission?"

Ben looked at her properly now. His eyes still dark, still burning.

"You like pushing me, don't you?"

She grinned. "You love it when I do. We find our boundaries together. One day we might reach them, but it's fun in the meantime."

Her hand drifted down beneath the covers, curling around him - already hardening again beneath her touch.

She stroked him slowly. Teasing and familiar.

"You gonna be jealous all day?" she asked.

"No."

"Good," she said, sliding the covers back. "Because I knew it would drive you wild and the way you fucked me after made it worthwhile. There needed to be that jeopardy."

She kissed down his chest.

"Fuck me again," she whispered. "This time like you know me."

***

Ben rolled on top of her. No rush. No aggression. Just weight and want.

Tasha spread her legs instantly, instinctively. Her body responded before her mouth did.

His cock pressed between her legs, big and hard, sliding through the mess they'd made together. She looked up at him, hair a wild halo, cheeks flushed.

"I'm still wet," she whispered.

"I know," he said, kissing her. Soft, then deeper. Slow, then desperate.

He didn't ask.

He just guided himself in - inch by inch, thick and stretching, until he was buried deep in her again.

Tasha moaned into his mouth - not loud, but honest.

The difference was immediate.

This wasn't the stranger fuck. This was Ben and Tasha - no aliases, no roles, just the two of them.

He moved slowly, hips grinding into her, not pounding now, but filling her completely, every stroke hitting placed no one else could.

Her hands moved to his face, fingers grazing his beard, his jaw.

"You feel different," she breathed.

He kissed her neck. Her collarbone. Her shoulder.

"I am different," he said. "I know you."

Her eyes flickered as his words hit home.

She wrapped her legs around him tighter, pulling him in, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

His hand slid under her arse, lifting her slightly, angling deeper.

She gasped.

"Ben..."

He smiled.

"Say it again."

"Ben..."

"Not a stranger now, am I?"

She shook her head, biting her lip. "You're mine."

He fucked her slower - grinding, rolling, owning every movement. His hands in her hair. Her lips on his neck. Their bodies locked tight.

Tasha clung to him, moaned into his ear.

"Don't stop. Don't let me go. Not yet."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She came first. Quieter this time, but deeper. Her whole body trembled under him, her pussy gripping his cock with slow, pulsing waves.

He didn't pull out.

He just held her, let her ride it.

Then followed.

His cock jerked deep inside her, releasing again, filling her until she whimpered, his cum seeping out of her.

They stayed like that for some time. Connected. Breathing together.

Just them. No games. No roles. Just filthy, honest love of the kind many other people couldn't understand.