The Wife, the Heat, and the Secret Request — A Miami Cuckold Fantasy

Miami cuckold stories always start with heat — and this one begins with a wife and a secret request she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

We met in her office.

Miami in the middle of summer. Ninety-eight degrees outside. Humid, blinding heat pressing against the windows, and an air conditioner trying—without much success—to cool what we were carrying inside.

Sofia had asked me to come.

A fourth floor in Coral Gables: dark polished wood, perfectly arranged books, a soft rug, and a wide window overlooking the bright, still afternoon. The kind of room where everything looked elegant… except what she felt.

When I walked in, she was standing by her desk.

White linen pants, a beige blouse buttoned up to the collar, a matching vest, her hair tied in a strict bun. Gold bracelet. Heels. Everything about her was intentional control.

Everything except her eyes.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, without the smallest hint of a smile.

We sat. She in her leather chair, I across from her. Her hands were clasped tightly together, as if she were holding something back.

“I have something to tell you,” she said quietly. “And I don’t know how you’ll react.”

I stayed silent. She took a long breath.

“This Saturday. At five. I have a… meeting. At a hotel in Brickell. With a man. Someone I met recently. He excites me… but it scares me. I’m not sure I’ll go through with it.”

She paused. Her eyes stayed on mine, searching for something. I didn’t speak. I just listened.

Then she lowered her voice.

“I want you to be with him. With my husband. While I’m gone.”

I looked at her, startled. I opened my mouth, but she continued first.

“He doesn’t know. He won’t know you’re going for me. I just need you to show up like it’s casual. A visit. A coffee. And… I want you to wake him up. Seduce him. Make him feel wanted.”

I leaned forward, slowly.

“Why, Sofia?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, the hardness was gone.

“Because he hasn’t felt like a man in years. Because I can’t pretend I desire him when I don’t. But you… you could make him believe he still has what a woman finds exciting. I want him to feel like a hunter again. Even if he isn’t.”

She stood up, walked around the desk and stopped behind my chair. Her fingers slid around my waist, her lips close to my ear.

“And when you come back,” she whispered, “I want you to tell me everything. How he looked at you. How he touched you. How you lost yourself with him. And I want you to still be carrying the memory of him on your skin… when we talk afterward.”

Tuesday. 5:28 PM. Miami still burning.

The sky was a harsh, bright white. The air felt thick enough to drink. I wore a loose cream linen dress with thin straps, nothing underneath to slow me down. I tied my hair in a soft knot, painted my lips, and added a drop of perfume behind my ear. On the outside, I looked natural. Inside, my intentions were something else entirely.

I rang the bell.

A chair moved inside. Footsteps. Then he opened the door.

His hair was still damp from the shower. He wore a dark cotton T-shirt and shorts—too short, really. The kind that show more thigh than men usually mean to show. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

Or maybe he had.

“Patricia?” he asked, surprised. “You came?”

“Sofia texted me. She left her wallet. I was nearby, so she asked if I could pick it up.” I smiled. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, no… come in.”

I stepped inside. The apartment was cool and dim, a fan turning lazily in the corner. It smelled like soap and something warm, something male. Not cologne. Skin.

“I think she left it on the sideboard,” he said. “Though with Sofia… you never know.”

I walked over, soft steps on the wooden floor. I picked up the wallet and turned around.

He was watching me.

His eyes dipped for a second. Just one. But it was enough. He saw the loose edge of the dress, the curve of my thigh.

“Would you like a glass of water before you go?” I asked softly.

“You don’t have to, but… sure.”

I walked to the kitchen like I’d been there before. I poured the water slowly, letting the sounds carry through the quiet apartment. Letting him imagine the way I moved.

When I came back, I held out the glass. Our fingers brushed as he took it.

“You’re very… summery today,” he said, half-smiling.

“Oh? Too much?”

He laughed, a little nervous.

“No. I’m not complaining.”

I sat on the couch, crossing my legs deliberately. And then I saw it—in the way he shifted in his seat, in how the fabric of his shorts tightened. His body spoke louder than his words.

“And Sofia… is she coming later?” I asked, letting the question fall between us.

“I don’t know. Sometimes she changes plans.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” I said, resting my chin on my hand. “Mind if I stay a little?”

The room fell quiet.

Only the soft hum of the fan, and the Miami sun filtering through the curtains like a lazy touch.

He reached for the glass of water on the side table—and it slipped.

Cold water spilled over his lap, soaking the thin fabric. It clung to him instantly.

“Damn,” he muttered, more frustrated than embarrassed.

“Don’t worry,” I said, standing up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah… I just don’t feel anything. Just the discomfort.”

The sentence hit me. Simple. Raw.

I knelt in front of him, pulled a small cloth from my bag—useless, too small—and looked up at him.

“Do you want me to get you dry shorts?”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

He pointed toward the bedroom. I went in. Everything was perfectly arranged: drawers neat, clothes folded. I chose a pair of soft gray cotton shorts and came back.

I knelt again in front of him.

“Want me to help?” I asked.

“I can’t pull them down… you know that.”

I touched his knee, gently.

“I know,” I said softly. “Let me.”

I unbuttoned the wet shorts. He watched me, tension in every line of his body. It wasn’t crude desire. It was something deeper—longing, fear, hope.

I slid the shorts down to his knees. His legs were thin, still. Not lifeless. Just quiet.

There was life in his torso, in his hands, in the way he touched my arm with trembling fingers.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly.

“Yeah?” I whispered.

“Yeah. I don’t know if I should say it…”

“Say it anyway,” I murmured.

I dried the inside of his thighs with slow, careful motions. His breathing quickened. His voice dropped a tone.

Then he touched my hair. Gently. His fingers slid to my neck, then to my shoulder.

“Does Sofia know you come over looking this… fresh?”

I looked up at him, leaning in a little, my lips closer to his chest.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Does it matter?”

He swallowed. His hand rested on the small of my back—the only place he could easily reach.

“Don’t touch me because you pity me,” he whispered.

“I never would,” I answered.

As I leaned deeper, the neckline of my dress shifted. I was wearing nothing underneath. One breast slipped almost free, covered only by a soft fold of fabric.

He saw it. And he didn’t look away.

His hand rose, trembling, and brushed against me. At first with cautious hesitation, then with something closer to need. His thumb circled my nipple, and I closed my eyes.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to feel this again,” he murmured.

Before I could answer, he leaned forward and kissed me.

It was clumsy at first. Urgent. Afraid.

Then it grew deeper. Warmer. Truer. His lips trembled. Mine welcomed him, and for the first time that afternoon, the heat outside felt colder than the heat between us.