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I want you to know that I didn’t want anything to happen with your husband. I don’t like him. I don’t admire him. But, I admit that I was attracted to him.
When we landed at Frankfurt, it was late, I was exhausted, and I didn’t really pay attention to the hotel arrangements. We climbed into the back of an uber and your husband placed his hand confidently on my leg. High on my leg. His pinky practically pressing against my panties. He gave my leg a squeeze, steadily increasing the pressure, until it hurt. I wanted to cry out but managed to suppress a whimper.
“Good girl” he growled.
We got to the room. Just the one room. Just one bed. He propped open the door to the hallway with his luggage. Opened the curtains on the massive window that faced another wing of the hotel. Turned the lights on and asked me: “Do you like that blouse?”
It was such a non-sequitur that it derailed my protest about sharing a room.
“Yes…”
“Then you’d better unbutton it quick or I’m tearing it off.”
I was right in front of the window. Spotlit. Exposed.
I unbuttoned my top. Placed it on the back of the chair. Without being told, peeled off my leggings. Instinctively, I slid my feet back into my heels, guessing that he would want that.
I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my panties and asked:

“Underwear on or off?”

Afterwards, alone on the toilet, I took some selfies looking down at my crotch: one showing the bruise: essentially a purple blotchy handprint. And one with one hand pulling my panties away from my battered pussy, the cum flowing out and crusting on my panties. I sent that pic to him and I think it is what he uses as his lockscreen now.

NSFW: yes

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