Something's Off (A Slowburn NTR) W

14. Wife's POV

The moment I stepped into the bathroom, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My heart was pounding, and I could still feel the oil on my fingers, the smell clinging to my skin. I scrubbed harder than necessary, trying to get rid of it--no, trying to erase what it reminded me of. That room. That old man. That... moment.

I wasn't proud of how long I stayed there. But I didn't want him--my husband--to smell it. That strange, musky oil that didn't belong in our house. I didn't even want to look him in the eye just yet. Not when my thoughts were this tainted. Not when I could still feel that man's eyes on my chest and that thick shape twitching under his shorts.

God.

I shouldn't be thinking about that.

But I was.

Even as I stood under the water, even as I lathered soap up and down my thighs, that moment kept replaying. His eyes--blatantly watching my breasts move as I massaged his legs. The slow way he asked me to massage higher. The way his length reacted to my touch, thick and heavy under the fabric. I shouldn't have looked. But I did. And it shocked me--how big he was, especially for a man his age. It was the kind of sight you didn't just forget.

I wasn't supposed to enjoy it. I knew that. But the heat between my legs as I rubbed that oil on him, the way my breath caught when his thigh shifted and brushed against my hand--I can't lie to myself. A part of me was excited. Scared, but excited.

I told myself I was just helping. Just being polite. But I felt the shift inside me. Something was starting to crack. This game between us--it had started without me noticing. And now... I wasn't sure I wanted to stop it.

The afternoon was passing like a blur. Later, around lunchtime, I stepped quietly into his workspace with a plate of food in my hands. I didn't say anything--just set it down gently on his desk, letting the soft clink of the plate speak for itself. I didn't want to break his concentration, just be there, offer something simple and warm.

He looked up and smiled, and that made something loosen in my chest. We started talking while he ate--about his projects, the deadlines piling up, the tiny wins that helped him keep going.

I listened, nodded, gave small replies where I could.

I'd glance at him--my husband--sitting right across from me. I saw him smile, joke, talk about work as if nothing had changed.

But something had.

Something in me.

It was hard to sit still. I could still feel that oil between my fingers, the slippery texture of it on my palms. I had washed my hands, yes. Twice. But I could still feel it. Worse, I could still smell it. The old man's scent. That thick, musky heat that now felt like it was soaked into my skin. And buried beneath it, something more disturbing--my own arousal.

I had touched something I shouldn't have. I had watched it twitch, felt the heat of it even without ever wrapping my fingers around it. That flinch from beneath his shorts had branded itself into my mind. The thickness. The length. Shameless, bold. Not what I expected from an old man. And now, even as I sat across from my husband, I couldn't stop remembering how close I'd come to touching it.

It was eating at me. And the worst part? A piece of me wanted to feel it again.

I needed air. I needed to get out.

Groceries. I told him I needed groceries. It was the only excuse I could grab in the moment. He didn't ask questions, just nodded and waved me off like always. He trusted me. That trust made my chest hurt.

The air outside was warm, a bit too still, but the walk back home helped steady my nerves after what happened earlier in the day. My legs still felt weak from the oil massage incident--his words, the way he stared, the way he moaned... it was all too much. I had barely managed to stop myself from looking down between his legs again. I kept telling myself it wasn't right. That I was married. That I was loyal. That I loved my husband. But then why was I... curious?

My arms were full of grocery bags when it happened.

I heard the soft thud before I saw it.

A small box hit the ground right in front of me. I bent down instinctively to pick it up, expecting a wallet or keys--but froze the second I read what it was.

A condom box.

Not just any condom. Extra large.

I froze for a second, blinking as if I might've misread the label. But it was right there--bold, clear. My cheeks flushed with heat as my eyes instinctively tried to guess just how big that size must be. I remembered the shape I saw under the old man's shorts--thick, swollen--but the idea that this young man needed this size too?

I quickly turned and noticed him--walking ahead, completely casual.

"Hey!" I called out, forcing myself to sound neutral.

He turned, and I almost wished he hadn't. The same cocky, slow smirk spread across his face. That lazy, confident kind of look that said he knew exactly what I was holding.

He walked back slowly, not hurried. Like he wanted me to keep looking at that box.

When he got closer, he noticed the condoms in my hand. His eyes flicked from the condom to my face, then slowly--intentionally--down to my chest. I could feel it. The way his gaze paused there. I was wearing a fairly snug top, and I knew how my breasts moved when I walked. My breathing had quickened, which probably wasn't helping.

I held out the box. He took a second, and then smirked.

"Oh?" he said lazily, not even reaching for it. "What's this?"

His eyes dropped to the box and then slowly crawled back up to meet mine. "Wow. I didn't know you go around giving condoms to random guys, ma'am."

The way he said "ma'am"--mocking, teasing, almost dripping with something filthier--made my skin tingle uncomfortably. I looked away, flustered. "It just fell from your pocket."

A pause.

Then he laughed, low and deep. "Right. My bad. That's mine. The large size, of course. Can't believe I didn't feel it fall. I was on my way to meet my girl--you know how it is. Gotta be prepared."

His grin widened. "I'm sure you understand. A married woman like you... you'd know how important this kind of thing is."

He finally took it from my hand, but his fingers brushed against mine as he did, slow and deliberate. I pulled back, heart pounding. I turned quickly and hurried back toward the house, my heels clacking faster than they should.

And that's when I saw him--my husband--watching me from the balcony. My stomach sank. I didn't know how much he had seen. I raised the grocery bags like it was just any other day. "Look at all this!" I called, voice way too cheerful, praying he didn't notice the way my hands trembled.

Back inside, I headed to the kitchen and forced myself to focus on sorting the groceries. I couldn't stop thinking about that stupid box. About the size. About the way he had looked at me--like I was something to be tasted.

And it didn't help that I kept remembering the sounds I'd heard that night--the same young man, with the married woman. Her moans. Loud, wild, raw. There was no pretense. No shame. She had screamed for it, for him. Like a woman completely undone.

I had hated hearing it at first. But now... now it played on loop in my head.

The lights were dim. The house had finally quieted down. My husband had fallen asleep on the bed beside me, his breathing soft, even. He looked so peaceful... like always. That same gentle look on his face that had never changed. Kind. Trusting. Safe.

And yet--I wasn't.

I lay there beside him, my eyes open in the dark, wide awake and restless. My thighs shifted slowly, quietly under the blanket. There was a throb between my legs again. That ache that wouldn't go away. It wasn't because of the man sleeping next to me.

It was because of them.

The neighbors.

That young guy. That smug bastard who dropped a condom right in front of me like it meant nothing. But it wasn't just a condom. It was large size. Thick. Heavy in the box. That wasn't something I could unsee, unfeel. He didn't even bother hiding it. And when I offered it back, he looked at me with that same slow, daring stare--like he wanted me to notice exactly what he was packing. Like he knew it would get under my skin.

And worse... it did.

My husband stirred a little beside me, murmured something in his sleep, and then settled again. I turned to look at him. His lips were slightly parted. His face relaxed. He always looked so... harmless. So sweet. He wouldn't hurt anyone. He wouldn't lie. He wouldn't even think of doing the things that man next door did.

The contrast made my heart sink and my pussy throb harder.

My fingers curled under the blanket, nails slightly digging into my thigh as I tried to fight it. But my mind wouldn't stop spinning. I remembered it clearly--that night we had returned from watching movie.

The raw, filthy moans from the young man's house. The sounds of a woman getting fucked, not made love to. Loud, sharp cries, gasps--wet, obscene noises that echoed through the night. The way her voice cracked like she couldn't take it anymore and yet wanted more.

And then another day. That other woman who later turned out to be married. The one who sneaked up to his door, her eyes darting around like a teenager having an affair. My husband thought noticed as well. But I saw more. The way the young man yanked her wrist, grabbed her ass like it belonged to him. That grin--filthy, arrogant, dominant. His eyes flicked to me for a moment as he pulled her inside. He knew I was watching. He wanted me to see. He wanted me to imagine what would happen once that door closed.

I started imagining it.

She was probably bent over his couch, her ass red from the slaps, her legs shaking from the force of each deep thrust. His cock--thick, long, young--stretching her open in ways her husband probably hadn't in years. I imagined her gasping for air as he held her by the neck, whispering filth into her ears, pounding her like she was nothing but his personal plaything. I pictured her face twisted in pleasure, drool on her lips, eyes unfocused from the intensity of it all.

And what shook me most was the thought that she wanted this. That she craved it. That she let him--a man younger than her.

And I--what was I doing?

Lying beside a kind man who never raised his voice. A man who smiled at me even when he was tired. Who trusted me to go out and come back without question. Who never suspected a thing.

I turned my head slowly and looked at him.

My husband.

Peaceful. Loving. Everything a good man should be.

But my pussy ached--and not for him.

It throbbed with a need I couldn't tame, a heat that had built up not from the man beside me... but from those other men. The old man and his obscene thickness twitching under his shorts. The young neighbor with that cock so big it needed an extra-large condom. The way he talked to me like I was already halfway his.

I wasn't touching myself anymore.

I was fucking myself with my fingers now--two, three deep inside, slick and fast, my other hand smothering the sounds in my mouth as I tried not to wake him. My legs trembled as the thoughts spun faster in my head. I imagined the old man grabbing me from behind, oil slick on my back as he pushed his cock between my thighs. I imagined the young guy holding me down, condom tight around his thick shaft, shoving himself into me until I broke.

My husband stirred lightly and turned in his sleep.

I froze.

Guilt stabbed at my chest. What the fuck was I doing?

But the throbbing between my legs didn't stop. It begged for more. My soaked fingers curled again. I shut my eyes, trapped in that wicked place between shame and raw lust.

This wasn't me. This wasn't who I was. But I didn't stop. I couldn't.

Because even as my body shuddered and I came silently in the dark, my mind was already drifting toward the next excuse, the next visit... the next time I might hear those moans--or maybe, become the one making them.

Chapter 15

I woke up slowly, my body sinking into the sheets with a strange sense of peace. For the first time in a while, I felt... relieved. I glanced to my side.

He was still sleeping, face turned slightly toward me, his lips parted just a bit as he breathed softly. My husband looked so calm. So trusting. My heart squeezed with a pang of guilt.

He had no idea.

No idea that just hours ago, his wife lay beside him with her fingers buried between her thighs, soaking the sheets in silence, muffling her cries of pleasure with trembling lips. And all for what? Not for him.

But for the men around me--the ones who've been slowly, shamelessly sinking into my mind. Their words, their stares, the sounds I heard, the images I imagined... they all haunted me. I came like a filthy woman, twitching and dripping beside the man who'd never hurt me, who never even questioned me.

What am I becoming?

I sat up quietly and let the morning sunlight touch my skin. My thighs still tingled. My pussy was tender, slightly sore--no doubt from how desperately I had fingered myself last night. I closed my eyes for a second, remembering it. The way I bit my lip, trembling with every stroke. My husband's soft breathing right beside me, completely unaware that his wife was getting off to thoughts of other men.

My heart pounded again. Disgusting. Wrong. But god, the relief I felt afterward...

I got up from the bed, wrapped myself in a towel, and stepped into the bathroom. The moment the warm water splashed against my skin, I exhaled deeply. I ran my fingers through my wet hair, trying to clear my head. I poured some soap into my hand and lathered it across my breasts, my belly, down to my thighs. I moved slower than usual, my fingers lingering where they shouldn't.

And that's when I noticed it.

A flicker. A shadow. A shift in movement.

My body froze.

The hole.

The same damn hole in the bathroom wall. The one my husband had pointed out weeks ago. "It's sealed from the other side," he'd said. "Don't worry."

But that flicker wasn't nothing.

My heart thudded.

The other side of that wall... it was the young man's bathroom. That bold, cocky guy with the devil in his grin. The one who dropped that condom right in front of me, like a message. Like a dare. And now... what if he's been watching me? What if it was never sealed at all?

My legs wobbled slightly.

All this time... has he seen me? Has he watched me every time I bathed? My naked body... my tits... my ass... My breathing turned shallow. My nipples hardened against the warm air. And down there--my pussy pulsed sharply. Heat flushed through me like wildfire.

God.

I'm a married woman.

And this bastard... he might've been staring at my naked body for days, for weeks. Stroking himself off to my soapy skin, to my nipples, to the shape of my cunt as I bent to wash myself.

I should've screamed. I should've covered myself. I should've done something.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stared at that hole, frozen, skin prickling with something terrifying and exciting. A sick part of me wondered... is he watching right now? Am I turning him on?

No. What the hell am I thinking? This isn't me.

But what if it is?

What if I like this tension? What if I like knowing someone is desperate to see me, touch me--even if it's wrong? Even if it's dangerous?

I couldn't help myself--I shifted slightly, as if accidentally turning to give him a better angle. My soap-slicked breasts moved softly as I reached for the shampoo. My thighs pressed together because... my pussy wouldn't stop throbbing.

Am I seriously doing this?

A low moan slipped out before I could catch it. I gasped and slapped a hand over my mouth. My other hand trembled against my thigh.

I peeked again toward the hole. There it was--another movement. He was still there. Still watching.

Oh my god... he's watching.

My legs shook. Not in fear. But in something worse. Something darker.

The thought that maybe... I liked being watched.

Maybe I wanted him to see me.

I imagined his eyes wide, his cock stiff in his hand, stroking harder with every curve of my body. I imagined him cumming to me. My body. My married body. My nipples ached just from the image alone.

And for a second, I didn't care.

I just wanted to be seen. To be desired that badly.

I'm going insane.

But then... I saw it again. That flash of movement made me snap back. My heart hammered. This wasn't fantasy anymore. This was real.

And that terrified me.

Enough is enough.

I can't do this. I'm not some filthy woman who gets off to strangers watching her behind her husband's back. I'm not.

I reached for a nearby board and stepped closer to the wall. I pressed the wood firmly against the hole, sealing it as best as I could. My hands shook, but I held it there.

"No more," I whispered to myself. "No more of this."

I finished bathing in silence, barely touching myself. Guilt and shame sat heavy in my chest. But underneath all that... was still that unbearable heat between my thighs. I hated that it didn't go away.

Because deep down, something inside me had changed.

And I didn't know how much longer I could pretend otherwise.

The moment he shut himself in the room for work, I let out a deep sigh.

Four more days.

How was I supposed to survive the next four days like this? Every morning was starting to feel heavier, not because of anything he did, but because of what I had become. The way I smiled at him just now, acted calm, cooked breakfast like always... it all felt like I was wearing a mask that was starting to crack.

Every step I took toward the old man's house pulled me deeper into something I didn't want to name.

And yet... My chest felt tight with anticipation.

Was I getting excited? Was I actually expecting something to happen today too??

I shook the thought off and tried to convince myself that it was just anxiety. Just nerves. But even I didn't believe that anymore. Not really. Not with the way my thighs clenched every time I walked through that gate.

He opened the door as usual, disgusting smile on his face--but behind those smile, I knew something waited. Something that had already begun corrupting me.

I quickly got to work--dusting, tidying, folding some of his clothes. The routine helped me forget my thoughts. For a little while.

Then came the mopping. Then the dishes. He sat behind me on the couch, eyes boring into my back. Once, that stare used to make my skin crawl. Now? My body didn't flinch. My pulse still jumped every time he stood up, but not from fear. Not exactly.

I was... tuned to his movements. Every small sound, every footstep. I kept wondering when he would walk up behind me again. Look for ways to touch me.

I hated how part of me looked forward to it.

A few more minutes passed before he finally said something.

"Hmm, the pipe under the sink's acting up again," he muttered casually. "Can't fix it myself. Would you mind holding it in place from below while I tighten it from above?"

I nodded, voice tight in my throat. "Sure."

The sink did seem to be dripping. Not heavily, but enough to justify his claim. I crouched down, reached under, and gripped the pipe with both hands, adjusting my position until it felt steady. My focus narrowed to that one task--holding it firm and doing it quickly so I could leave.

He stood beside me a moment later, some tools in hand. His presence was close. Too close. But I didn't dare glance at him yet.

And then-- A musky and sharp scent hit me. Familiar.

I turned slightly, and there it was.

His cock.

Inches from my face.

I froze. Not touching--but so close. I could feel its heat. I stared in shock, my eyes locked on that thick shaft. One slight movement of my head and...

God.

I swallowed hard, heat rushing up my chest to my cheeks. I tried to focus back on the pipe. On the job. But my mind was spinning. That dick--I'd seen it before. Massaging its thick, veiny shape through his pants. The size was unmistakable.

And now it was right in front of me.

So close I could smell it.

My pussy clenched.

A warm itch spread from deep in my belly to between my legs. My grip on the pipe tightened, knuckles turning white, like I was holding on to my last scrap of control.

I turned my face again, this time not accidentally. I looked at it--long and thick, outlined perfectly beneath his loose shorts.

Wetness gathered in my panties.

What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I look away?

And then--he shifted. Just a little.

Closer.

Now it was right there.

I didn't move. Didn't speak. What could I say? You're disgusting? Move away? But my mouth stayed shut. After all... I wasn't the one doing it. It was him. The shameless old man bringing his dick to my face.

I sneaked a glance up at him, lifting my brows in a silent question--what are you doing?

And I saw it.

That stare.

Mocking. Humiliating. Degrading.

He didn't even try to pretend. His eyes told me everything: You know where you belong.

I quickly looked away, face flushed, heart hammering. My hands shook slightly on the pipe. I could hear him rummaging through the tools again, like none of this was happening.

Was this a game to him?

Why did my body feel like it was on fire?

I cursed under my breath, and still--still--I turned my face back one more time.

One last look.

That cock was bulging now.

Throbbing slightly beneath the fabric.

I was soaked. My panties clung to my folds, slick and needy. My thighs squeezed together in a hopeless effort to soothe the pulsing between them.

But I couldn't.

And I didn't know how long I could keep pretending.

His cock was boldly pushing through the soft fabric of his shorts, hanging thick and low, not even trying to hide. It was so close. Barely inches from my face. The tip formed a clear shape beneath the cloth, full and heavy and hard.

I froze.

My lips opened the smallest bit, and I immediately regretted it. Because now, they felt... dry, exposed and hungry.

I should've pulled away. I should've gasped. I should've screamed in disgust. But I didn't.

I couldn't stop looking.

God... it was big and thick. I could see the outline of the veins through the thin material. My breath caught in my throat, and I realized I was staring like some desperate, depraved woman... lips twitching like they wanted to be used.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I shouldn't be thinking about how that cock would feel inside my mouth. I shouldn't be wondering what it tastes like, how heavy it would feel resting on my tongue. But my lips were tingling... literally tingling--with shame and something darker.

And then... he moved.

Just an innocent shift forward. A half-step. A lean.

But it wasn't innocent at all.

His cock pressed right against my lips.

I didn't even get time to react.

The soft fabric touched my mouth--warm, slightly damp and underneath, the firm, pulsing shape of his dick pushed right into me. Not harsh. Just enough to feel it. And I did. Every curve. The blunt head. The heat.

My mouth stayed open like a fucking idiot.

I didn't pull away. Not right away. I just knelt there, letting his cock rest on my lips like they belonged there.

Oh my God.

My thighs squeezed together. My nipples hardened instantly. My whole face burned. But worse than the embarrassment was the... craving.

My tongue twitched in my mouth, desperate to flick out and lick him through the cloth. I hated it. I hated that I wanted it. That I hadn't moved. That some filthy part of me wanted him to push harder--to shove it in.

When I finally realized what I was doing, what I'd allowed--I pulled my head to the side with a quiet gasp. My lips stayed parted, wet and trembling. I felt them still tingling from the contact.

And I hated how empty my mouth felt without it.

He said nothing. Just kept working. Pretending.

But I knew. We both did.

His cock had just kissed my mouth.

And my mouth... wanted more.

He finally stopped, tossed the wrench aside, and stepped back. I heard him walk a few feet away. But I still hadn't moved.

I was still kneeling there, face hot, thighs clenched, breathing uneven.

Then I heard his voice, calm and casual:

"You're not going to stand up?"

I looked up, startled. He had turned slightly, glancing at me over his shoulder.

His lips curled into a smirk.

"Looks like you're enjoying sitting there."

My entire body stiffened. I scrambled to stand, muttering, "I--No, I was just--"

But he was already walking away. Whistling again. Like none of it mattered.

My lips still tingled. My knees still ached from how long I'd knelt.

And deep between my legs, I felt a pulsing heat that refused to die down.

Chapter 16

I stood up slowly, my legs trembling beneath me. My knees almost gave out from sitting like that and from what had just happened. I was weak. Not just in the body, but in the mind. My pussy was still tingling even throbbing, like it was alive and pulsing with need.

And I hated it. I hated how wet I felt from that disgusting, filthy moment. I didn't even look at him--I couldn't. If I had met his eyes, I might've fallen apart right there.

His magic was working on me. That thick, dirty energy he carried in his presence, that shameless, overpowering masculinity that soaked into the air like smoke. It had taken hold of me, crawled under my skin, into my thoughts. I didn't trust myself to stay another second near him. I needed to get out of that house immediately or I didn't know what I'd do.

I pushed the door open and stepped outside, heart pounding, hands clammy. My body was moving on its own, but my mind was swirling. It was all I could think about.

Did he really... press his cock on my lips?

Not brush. Not graze.

Pressed.

Was it a mistake?? That's not possible. It was deliberate. Firm, warm, heavy... right against my mouth through that flimsy fabric. And I had let it happen. I didn't pull away. I didn't flinch. I sat there like a fucking whore with my lips slightly opened, practically offering my mouth to him.

His thick cock, resting on my lips like it belonged there. And the worst part? The part that made my pussy clench as I walked? I liked it.

I liked the way it felt.

I liked how thick and hot and bold it was.

Inside the house, he was still working. Still sweet. Still blind to what had just happened to his wife, mere minutes ago, not even a full block away.

How that old man was making advances on his wife. And how his wife was letting it happen.

I slipped into the bathroom, my breaths shallow, chest rising and falling too fast. I shut the door and locked it quietly. My hands were shaking as I pulled down my panties.

Fuck.

The fabric clung to my pussy lips, sticking lewdly to my skin. When I took them off, a string of wetness stretched between the cotton and my swollen folds. I'd never been this wet in my life. Not even for my husband.

But for that old man... For his cock. His smell. His audacity.

I stared at my own reflection in the mirror, panting, cheeks flushed, shame burning through me.

I slowly brought one finger slowly up to my mouth and pressed it against my lips.

The same spot. The same place his cock had rested just minutes ago.

My eyes fluttered at the memory.

Right here. His cock was right fucking here.

And my lips had twitched. They wanted to wrap around him. My mouth had been slightly open.

What if--What if my mouth had been open wider? What if I'd pushed my face just a little more? His cock would've slipped between my lips. He would've filled my mouth in one smooth push. I wouldn't even have had time to react. He would've been inside me, leaving me gasping for air.

My tongue twitched just thinking about it. The weight of it. The salt of his skin. The way my jaw would've ached trying to take all of it in. How my lips would've stretched, spit dripping as he forced it deeper and deeper and

I whimpered softly, thighs clenching together.

No. No. Stop it. Stop it.

These disgusting thoughts.

I gripped the sink, breathing hard. "You can't betray him," I whispered to my reflection. "You love your husband. You're not this person."

But I couldn't stop imagining it. His cock inside my mouth. My tongue sliding under the thick shaft, tasting him. My lips wrapped around him, eyes wide with shock as he held my head down, made me choke on him.

I slapped cold water on my face, trying to ground myself.

I should've pulled away when he leaned in.

But deep down, a filthy voice whispered:

Why didn't you open your mouth, slut?

If I had... if I had just opened wider... maybe I'd finally know how he tasted. Maybe he would've shoved it deeper, fed me every inch, made me gag on his cock.

I shook my head hard and stared at myself like I was looking at a stranger. My thighs were still rubbing together. My nipples poked hard against my shirt, aching for attention.

I should be ashamed. I was ashamed.

But that shame only made me wetter.

I closed my eyes and bit my lip. Deep down... I was wishing. Wishing that my mouth had been just a little more open. Just wide enough for that cock to slide past my lips. I could've finally tasted him. That cock that haunts my thoughts now. That thick, old, filthy cock. I would've sucked it. I know I would've. I wanted to. Even now, part of me still wants to run back and finish what he started.

My fingers twitched at my side, aching to touch my pussy. Just one rub. One little stroke. Just enough to--

No.

No.

I slapped my face lightly and stood up, panting. I took my panties off, stuffed them deep in the laundry basket, and grabbed a clean pair from the drawer. I didn't even wipe. I wanted to feel that slickness between my thighs. I deserved to feel it. Like a mark of shame. A reminder of what I almost let happen.

I threw myself into chores after that, trying to keep busy. Trying to not think about his cock. His smell. The way my lips had welcomed him.

Eventually, I made my way into the kitchen and fixed his meal.

I handed him the plate of food.

He smiled at me, soft and grateful.

I wanted to cry.

He had no idea that just an hour ago, his wife had been on her knees with another man's cock pressed to her lips--wishing, aching, that she had just opened her mouth and sucked it in.

He found me in the kitchen, drying off my hands after rinsing the dishes.

"Let's go out for a bit," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just a walk. I need some fresh air."

I nodded softly. "Sure."

It was the first time in a while he asked to go anywhere with me. Not for groceries. Not errands. Not for movies. Just a walk. As we stepped out, I glanced at his face and noticed the tension easing from it. He really needed this.

But so did I.

The cool breeze brushed against my skin, and I felt my own shoulders relax. Not because of the air or the silence, but because we were outside the house. Away from the things I'd done. Away from that pipe under the old man's sink. From the way he positioned himself. From his thick cock inches from my lips. From the way I couldn't stop staring. Couldn't stop imagining the things I'd never dared before.

We stopped at a corner stall and shared ice cream. He laughed when his started dripping and he couldn't keep up with it, and something in me cracked open. I smiled. I even laughed a little. For a few moments, we felt normal. Like a real couple. Like everything hadn't changed.

But then... we turned a corner.

"Hey!"

Ray's voice cut through the quiet, and I stiffened before I even turned around.

He walked up to us, hand raised in that easy, friendly way. He looked more relaxed than usual. Not like the man who stood inside our house that night. Not like the man whose body had been pressed tight against mine in that futon closet, breathing against my neck while we waited for the burglar to leave.

I remembered the feeling of his chest against my back, the warmth of his breath near my ear. I told myself it was just the situation. That it didn't mean anything. That it was an accident. A necessity.

But now, standing in front of us, Ray smiled easily, casually inviting us to his place for dinner like nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn't lingered so close in the dark while I pretended not to notice.

I stayed polite. Smiled. Let my husband do the talking. He exchanged numbers, and Ray walked off.

At home, everything returned to routine. We changed. Brushed teeth. Got into bed.

But I didn't want to sleep.

Not yet.

The tightness in my chest had crawled lower, settling between my thighs. I needed to let it out. I needed release. I needed to stop thinking about pipes, and closets, and the way the old man's cock throbbed right near my face while I knelt helplessly beneath his sink. The way he didn't flinch or adjust. The way he knew I saw it.

I didn't want to think about that.

But I needed something.

So I slid out of my underwear, let my fingers wrap around my husband's cock, and took what I needed.

No teasing. No slow touches. I needed to be filled. Fucked. Used. I wrapped my lips around him and sucked hard. I didn't care how messy it got. I didn't care that he looked surprised. I wanted him hard. Now. I wanted to ride until I couldn't think straight.

And I tried.

I climbed over him and shoved his cock into my mouth before he could say anything. He groaned, startled, his thighs tensing under my arms. I didn't tease or play. I buried him deep, gagged, spit trailing down my chin. My head bobbed fast, wet, sloppy, sucking him with no rhythm, just hunger.

I wasn't doing it for him--I was doing it for me.

God, I was so wet already. I could feel it soaking my inner thighs, my clit throbbing. I pulled off, eyes locked on him as I straddled his hips and grabbed his cock.

He looked dazed, still catching up.

I didn't wait.

I lined him up and shoved him inside. My pussy clenched tight around him as I dropped all the way down, groaning with frustration because it still wasn't enough. He felt good--but not enough.

I started riding, hard and fast. No grinding, no tenderness. Just bouncing. Slapping. Using his cock like it was nothing but a toy.

His hands reached up to touch me, to steady me.

I slapped them away.

Don't slow me down.

He tried to moan my name, to kiss me--I ignored it. I wasn't here for love. I was chasing something brutal. Something dirty.

But it wasn't working.

Every time I bounced high, his cock slipped out. Over and over.

Each time, my frustration grew sharper. My pussy was dripping, clenching, begging. But his cock wouldn't stay. My body couldn't grab hold the way it needed to.

And all I could think was--

If it was the old man... if that thick, veiny cock had been inside me... it wouldn't have slipped out. No matter how high I bounced. No matter how soaked I was. That heavy cock would've stayed buried inside me, stretching me, ruining me.

He wouldn't let me ride him like this. I wouldn't need to do all the work. He would've grabbed my hips, slammed me down, called me his filthy little whore and fucked the breath out of my lungs. He'd make me scream until I broke.

This cock--my husband's cock--it twitched like it was trying. But it wasn't enough.

I wanted to cum. I needed to. My pussy was soaked, swollen, and still it wasn't enough.

My clit rubbed against his skin but it wasn't hitting right. I bounced harder, cursed under my breath. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cum like a slut and forget my name. But it kept slipping out, and every time it did, that ugly thought returned.

If only he were bigger. If only this cock could fuck me the way the old man would. I'd already be cumming. I'd already be wrecked.

I shoved him back in again, forcing myself to focus.

Then I felt his body tense beneath me.

"Shit--I'm gonna--"

And just like that, he exploded inside me.

Warm pulses filled my pussy. His face scrunched up, hips jerking under me as his cum spilled out in spurts. And I... I didn't feel a damn thing.

My orgasm never came.

I stayed still, his cock twitching inside me, my thighs aching, pussy dripping--but empty. My walls fluttered around him out of habit, not pleasure.

He looked at me, touched my side, asked gently, "Was that... okay?"

I smiled. "Yeah. Of course. I really needed that."

I kissed his cheek, got up, and walked to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

But I wasn't done.

Not even close.

I sat on the toilet, legs still trembling, then grabbed a towel, laid it out on the cold tile, and dropped to my knees.

My hand shot between my thighs, fingers sliding through the cum still leaking from my pussy, mixing with my own arousal. I rubbed furiously, two fingers pressing into my dripping hole while my other hand circled my clit.

And the image came back immediately.

The old man. That thick cock on my lips. The weight of it. The veins. The scent. That shameless display. That arrogant confidence like he already owned me.

No," her mind screamed. "You're married. You love your husband. You just had sex with him--why are you thinking about--"

"Shut up," she growled, breath ragged.

"You're sick. That's an old man. That's disgusting. You're disgusting."

"He's not your husband."

"You're going to ruin everything."

SHUT UP. Fuck these thoughts. Fuck every voice trying to shame me.

Let me masturbate to his thick cock. Let me fucking cum to that image.

I imagined myself on my knees. The old man towering over me, that monstrous cock in hand, slapping it across my face. "You want it, don't you?" he'd growl. "You need something real."

"Fuck... yes..."

In my mind, I imagined him grabbing my hair, pulling my head back, whispering in that gravelly voice, "You need to be fucked right, girl."

Yes. God, yes.

He'd bend me over the bathroom sink, shove that monstrous cock between my legs without asking, spit down on it, and rub the tip against my pussy until I begged. Begged.

And when he finally pushed in...

My fingers slipped lower, two of them thrusting inside. My walls were so tight I moaned out loud, teeth clenched.

I imagined the old man pushing deeper. And deeper. Stretching me past what I thought I could take. My pussy trying to fight it, but failing. His cock forcing its way in, inch after inch, until my belly bulged and I cried out his name.

Not my husband's.

His.

I pumped my fingers harder. My wrist ached, but I didn't care.

In my head, I pictured myself bent over, tits pressed to the cold counter, ass up, while he grabbed my hips and fucked me with slow, punishing thrusts. His balls slapping against my soaked skin. My moans echoing in the small bathroom. And him--grinning, growling, watching me fall apart.

"Is this what you wanted?" I imagined him snarling. "Some real cock? Not that little thing your husband gives you?"

My pussy clenched again. My legs twitched.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I fucked myself faster, fingers thrusting deep, grinding my palm against my clit until I was right there--right on the edge.

I pictured him cumming inside me. Not gentle. Not sweet. But deep, possessive. Like he was claiming me.

I imagined his cum leaking out afterward, not dribbling like my husband's, but pouring, thick and heavy, soaking my thighs, dripping onto the tiles. I wouldn't be able to hide it. I'd walk funny. Smell like him. Be marked.

Ruined.

That was what I wanted.

And then I came.

Hard.

My whole body shuddered, fingers buried inside, palm crushed to my clit as the orgasm ripped through me like a wave. My mouth hung open, but no sound came out--just the raw, shaking breath of someone who had just fallen apart.

I stayed there, slumped, sweat beading on my chest, thighs soaked.

When I finally looked down, my fingers were still glistening. My pussy red and swollen. Used.

I wiped my hand slowly on the towel and stood up, legs trembling again--but this time, not from frustration.

From aftershocks. And guilt. But I didn't regret it. Not even a little.

Chapter 17

I woke up with my mind feeling fresh and relaxed. As if the storm of last night had passed.

Beside me, my husband slept peacefully--his mouth slightly open, his arms tucked in close like a child's. I leaned in and kissed his cheek softly. He looked so cute. So sweet. So innocent. It made my heart ache.

And then it all came back.

The bath. The moaning. The way I'd lost control. The words I had whispered like a woman possessed.

"Fuck you, I want to think about that cock..."

My breath caught in my throat.

Who was that woman last night? Who said those things with such hunger, such filth, such shamelessness? That wasn't me. It couldn't have been me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor. The memory of my own voice echoed inside me, raw and soaked in lust--calling myself a slut, moaning for a cock that wasn't my husband's. That man. The old man.

My body remembered every second of it.

A cold shiver ran through me. That wasn't me... That wasn't me...

I shook the thoughts away with a tight jaw. No. I still have time. I can fix this. I can pull back. The line hasn't been crossed yet.

I bathed quickly, scrubbing away every trace of last night as if water could erase desire. As if it could purify what I had let happen inside me. After dressing, I moved into the kitchen and prepared breakfast, keeping myself busy so I wouldn't think.

He came out smiling, warm as ever. He ate his meal and gave me a gentle nod before heading to his workroom.

I smiled back, forcing it, even as I swallowed the lump in my throat.

Because even with all the determination in the world, something inside me was twitching. My gut tightened. My senses tingled.

It's about time.

Those words kept echoing in my mind, uninvited.

Time to go to his house. Time to be alone with the old man.

I gulped hard, bracing myself.

The moment I stepped into his house, that same familiar grin welcomed me. That damned creepy smile that used to make me uneasy now made my stomach flutter.

He didn't say anything. Just waved me in.

My heart thudded, thudded, thudded. I told myself: What happened yesterday should never happen again. I'm going to stay professional. Be normal.

And I believed that.

But my body... my body was telling a different story. I couldn't stop stealing glances. Ten minutes passed in silence. My hands were working, but my eyes kept flicking toward him. His posture. His expression. Sometimes... his cock.

I couldn't help it. I was watching, waiting.

Waiting for him to do something.

But he didn't.

He didn't look at me. He didn't stare. He didn't ogle my legs or my chest or my ass. And I wasn't ready for the blow that hit me because of that.

Why... why did that hurt?

Why did I feel out of place?

Had I... wanted him to stare? To touch?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I didn't know anymore. I was just... following whatever my body did on its own.

Another ten minutes passed. Still nothing from him.

I started to feel rejected. Unwanted.

And then I moved, not with purpose, not with plan, but from something darker inside me. Something that needed to be seen.

I crawled into his view, heart hammering in my chest. I crouched low to the ground, my knees pressing into the floor, hands sweeping a spot I had already cleaned earlier.

I didn't need to be there.

I just needed him to see me.

I peeked up, discreetly. Still, his eyes weren't on me.

The rejection burned hotter.

It felt like a silent challenge. Like he was saying: You're not worth it. You're not tempting enough anymore.

And I took that as a challenge.

I shifted lower, deliberately. My skirt lifted up little by little as I arched my back. My ass began to peek out, just slightly, just enough. I didn't fix it. I didn't pull the skirt down.

I wanted him to see.

My panties were clinging tight from the heat growing between my legs. I should've stopped. I knew I should have.

But some sick part of me... wanted his gaze back.

I wanted to feel that dirty thrill again. That shame. That heat. That silent, humiliating confirmation that he was looking--because I was worth looking at.

I moved even slower, hips tilting, deliberately exaggerating my posture.

I still didn't hear anything from him.

And yet, I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop tempting fate. My breath was already getting heavy again.

Was I doing all this... just to get his attention?

God help me, I think I was.

I saw him glance at me.

Just for a moment. A flick of his eyes.

And then... he turned away.

As if it meant nothing.

He stood up slowly and walked toward his bedroom. But just before slipping inside, he looked straight at me and held it. His gaze remained long enough to say something without words. Something dangerous. Something filthy.

My heart skipped.

That look--it wasn't casual. It was an invitation.

Like he was daring me. Come on, woman. Step in. Let me ruin you.

I froze on the floor, sponge limp in my hand, thighs trembling.

It hit me like lightning.

If I follow him into that room... that's it. That's the line. Once I cross that door, I become something else. Something I can't take back.

I would betray my husband.

For his cock.

The old man's cock. That thick, vulgar thing I couldn't get out of my mind. The one I called better, the one I begged for in whispers when my husband was sleeping beside me.

I clenched my thighs shut and breathed hard.

Just a few steps. That's all it would take.

Three steps, maybe four, and I'd be inside. I'd see it again. I'd probably drop to my knees before he even asked.

My pussy pulsed at the thought.

What have I become?

I couldn't believe I was even considering it. That it was a real decision in my head. That there was a part of me--some rotten, perverted, hungry part--that actually wanted to go in.

I bit my lip hard.

And then, before I could move, he came back out.

Calm. Normal. Sat back on the couch like nothing happened.

Was I imagining it?

My mind spun in circles. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he really just went in to grab something. I was overthinking. Maybe I wanted there to be some meaning behind that glance. Maybe I wanted it too much.

But the damage was done.

That door in my head had opened.

And I knew now, with full clarity: I wasn't ready to cross the line. Not yet.

But the line... it was closer now. Way closer than yesterday. And just the idea of standing at its edge gave me a rush. A forbidden thrill that soaked straight into my bones.

It was like an addiction.

To be looked at. Desired. Tempted. Corrupted... but not yet ruined.

The teasing. The danger. The arousal.

It was its own kind of drug.

So I played it safe. I stood up, walked into the kitchen, started rinsing the mop. Breathed deeply.

Tried to act normal.

And then--

I heard it.

Slow, heavy footsteps behind me.

Getting closer.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each step made my breath catch. My hands paused under the running water.

He was coming towards me.

He stood behind me.

My body knew it before my eyes confirmed it--my skin prickled, my chest tightened, and my breath caught somewhere between my lungs and throat. But I didn't move. I didn't even let myself flinch. I kept washing the plate, my hands steady, my back straight, pretending not to notice him. Pretending like my heart wasn't pounding so hard I thought it might echo in the kitchen walls.

But then I noticed something. He wasn't standing too close. There was space. A small gap between his cock and my ass--one he deliberately kept. That confused me. Frustrated me. My thoughts started racing.

Why wasn't he pressing against me?

Why that distance?

Was he testing me again?

Did he want me to do something?

It felt like a silent game. A filthy, wordless game that only we knew how to play. One where each small movement was calculated, loaded, teasing.

My eyes flicked down toward the lower cabinet where the plates were stacked. That was the excuse. That would be my move.

I crouched slowly in front of the lower cabinet, pretending to reach for a plate I didn't actually need. My back arched instinctively, and I shifted my hips--subtly but deliberately--until I felt it.

His cock.

Right there.

Firm. Waiting.

Pressed snug between my ass cheeks, still clothed, but so close, so obvious, so real.

I held my breath, as if I hadn't done anything. As if I hadn't just aligned my body to feel that thick heat resting exactly where I wanted it. I acted innocent--like a clueless housewife just trying to get a dish.

And for a moment, he stayed still.

Then he started to move.

Slowly.

His hips rolled forward. Barely. Just a gentle, deliberate nudge of his cock into my ass. Then again. And again. Humping me. Quiet. Minimal. As if to ask, Is this what you wanted, slut?

I clenched around nothing. My pussy throbbed at every soft grind of his clothed cock against me. The humiliating part was--I didn't move away. I didn't flinch. I stayed bent, face down in the cabinet, hands trembling slightly as I fake-searched for the same damn plate I had already seen.

He was using me like that. Humping my ass through my panties while I pretended to not even notice.

And worse?

I loved it.

Each little thrust pressed his length between my cheeks, right up my crack. The thick shape of it slid higher with every roll of his hips, getting bolder, more confident. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore--and neither was I.

My breathing hitched. My thighs started to twitch, knees squeezing together as wet heat soaked into my panties. I could feel my arousal dripping down--my body was betraying me completely.

I bit my bottom lip, struggling not to moan.

My cheeks flushed, not just from pleasure but from the sheer shame of what I was doing.

Bent over like this, offering my ass to him. Letting him grind on me like a fucking toy, while I acted innocent. My husband was at work. Trusting me. And here I was--letting this filthy old man rub himself on me, making me so wet I could feel my slick soaking the inside of my thighs.

I could feel the thick ridge of his cock now, straining through his pants, nudging higher--poking right between my cheeks.

I adjusted slightly, just a little more arch, making sure he had full access. And he took it. Another grind. Another humiliating, needy push of his hips.

God.

My fingers gripped the edge of the cabinet.

I wanted him to keep doing it.

Even if I didn't want to admit it out loud, my body was screaming it.

His cock twitched. I could feel it throb against me through the fabric. That one twitch sent another bolt of heat straight to my pussy.

Stop this, a small voice whispered.

But the louder one, the one pulsing between my legs, moaned back:

No. Not yet. Not when it feels this good.

I stood up then, slowly, pretending to finally find the right plate. My breath had turned heavy, and I knew if he looked closely, he'd see the flush in my cheeks, the way my thighs were pressing together. I was wet. Completely soaked. And I didn't know how to stop this anymore.

I didn't even want to.

I wanted more.

I wanted it again. More.

That friction. That depraved heat. That thick, stiff pressure against my ass.

I didn't care anymore. I needed it.

I remembered the pipe from yesterday--the excuse, the position, the thrill--and before I could stop myself, I bent over again. Deep. Intentional. Offering. My face lowered beneath the sink, hands resting on either side for support as I pressed my ass back, aiming directly where I knew he'd be standing.

And just like I imagined...

His cock found me.

Hard.

Stiff.

Pointed right at my asshole.

It wasn't even subtle this time. I could feel the full heat of him through my panties. The thick ridge of his cock head dug into me like it belonged there, like my hole was just waiting for it. My body twitched from the contact, but I kept still, pretending, playing innocent.

"Hm..." I murmured, trying to make it sound casual. "Seems like the pipe's completely repaired."

I paused, back arched so far it almost hurt. My ass was pressed against him now, deliberately grinding on that filthy bulge.

"No leaking here..."

I smirked internally.

The leaking was somewhere else. Me.

He answered with that low, raspy voice that made my legs shake. "I'm an expert at repairing leakages."

My pussy clenched.

I understood exactly what he meant.

Before I could even respond, he leaned forward. Slowly. Powerfully.

His cock pressed harder into me--deeper, thicker, almost pushing the fabric into my skin. My hands gripped the edge of the sink as his weight pinned me down. My thighs twitched uncontrollably, my breath hitched from the sudden force.

He didn't thrust.

He pressed. Controlled. Deliberate. Torturing me.

And I fucking loved it.

His breath was hot on my back. His face leaned in until I could feel his lips grazing my skin. My nipples stiffened, my whole body trembling in helpless arousal.

"You're such a nice woman..." he whispered, voice thick with filth. "Always helping this old man. So generous. So obedient. Always giving when I ask."

My pussy throbbed so hard it almost hurt.

I was dripping--panties soaked, my slick probably staining my thighs, and all he'd done was grind.

He pressed himself in harder, and I felt it--his cockhead nudging the center of my asshole, right through the cloth. The sheer wrongness of that sent waves of pleasure through me. I gasped, quietly, trying to hold it in.

My hands dug into the edge of the sink. My nails clawed. My face lowered until it nearly touched the metal.

He was all over me now.

Pressed tight.

Cock twitching.

His lips hovered on my back again. "I hope you'll still help me... even when your little seven-day promise ends."

I couldn't say anything. I didn't want to say anything. Words would only betray the truth I couldn't admit--not even to myself.

That I'd help him.

That I wanted to help him.

Even after the seven days. Even after forever.

Because I couldn't stop.

Even though he hadn't even been inside me, it felt like my body had already been claimed. I was riding waves of forbidden pleasure just from this filth--just from his cock grinding against my ass like it was his to use.

He pressed again. Harder this time.

My back arched more. My mouth dropped open. My legs trembled.

A tiny sound escaped me.

Not a moan.

Not a word.

Just a twitching, breathy whimper--a pathetic little gasp that proved what I really was.

His lips met my back again. A small peck. Gentle.

Degrading.

Then he pulled back.

The heat vanished.

My skin cooled, but my insides still burned.

I was still bent over. Still twitching. Still soaked.

My fingers loosened their grip on the sink, but my thighs were clenched tight. My panties stuck to me like glue, soaked in my own filth. I didn't move. Couldn't move. My body was still reacting like a needy slut who didn't get her fix.

And that's what I was.

Twitching like a whore.

A shameless housewife begging for more through her body.

And the worst part?

I wanted to bend again.

I wanted to make him press again.

I wanted to feel what came next.

Even if it meant crossing the final line.