Chapter 10: Wife's POV

I wasn’t sure what woke me up, maybe the birds, maybe the rising heat, but the moment my eyes opened, I felt it. That weird heaviness in my chest again. Not fear, exactly. Not even guilt. It was something darker, messier. A mix of awareness and tension sitting low in my stomach, crawling up my spine like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

I lay there a while, staring at the ceiling fan as it squeaked in lazy circles. I hadn’t forgotten. I was supposed to go help the old man today. And the thing was, I could’ve made an excuse. I could’ve told my husband I wasn’t feeling well, or I had chores at home. But I didn’t. I got up, changed, and tied my hair like it was just any other day. Only, it wasn’t.

When wearing my clothes, my mind registered the way the fabric stretched across my hips, the slight curve of my ass visible when I bent or reached. I told myself it didn’t matter. But I still looked at myself a second longer in the mirror before stepping out.

The air outside was still, thick with the kind of silence that hangs before a storm. As I neared his door, my steps slowed. My fingers trembled just a little when I rang the bell. When he opened the door, the smell of him hit me—cheap soap, musty clothes, and something sharp underneath. He smiled in that quiet, eerie way he always did. Eyes shameless. He never even tried to hide the way he looked at me.

“You came,” he said, stepping aside, letting me in. His eyes swept over me like always—lingering where they had no business lingering.

I nodded, stepping inside, already regretting it but too proud to walk away. “I’ll start with the kitchen,” I said, and didn’t wait for a reply.

The floor was dusty. The kitchen reeked of damp wood and old spices. I took a deep breath and got to work—sweeping, wiping, pretending I couldn’t feel his eyes following every movement. Every time I bent over, I could feel him behind me, like a shadow pressed against my ass even if he wasn’t touching. The air between us grew heavier with each passing minute. My throat dried up, and yet I didn’t stop. I kept cleaning like a woman possessed, like I had something to prove.

Halfway through scrubbing the counter, he passed by me—slowly, deliberately close. I could smell the stale sweat on him. I knew it wasn’t an accident. His hand brushed mine. Just for a second. Enough to make me pause.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice gruff but smooth, like he enjoyed watching me flinch.

“Yeah,” I lied, too quickly. “Just tired.”

He laughed softly. “Your man keeping you busy?”

I didn’t answer. I turned and reached for the mop. As I bent, my skirt rose slightly, and I felt it—his eyes burning into my backside. That’s when the heat crawled up my neck again. Embarrassment? Shame? Or something worse—something like thrill.

I hated myself for it.

He didn’t say much after that. Just watched. Like I was some personal performance meant for him alone. I could feel him getting off on the silence, the obedience. I could hear the tick of the wall clock growing louder. The longer I stayed, the more I felt like something was cracking inside me. Some old layer of me peeling back—wife, mother, maid. Beneath it, a woman who had been looked at like that once. A woman who used to be aware of her own body. Of her own power.

It disgusted me that he saw that before my own husband did.

After a while, he called out, “Can you read the names on these tablets? My eyes are going bad.”

I moved to the table, stood beside him. He handed me a strip of pills, his fingers brushing mine again, slow and sticky like honey. I read out the names, my voice low, almost hoarse. He just kept staring at me, his lips slightly parted, like he wasn’t listening to a damn word—just watching the shape of my mouth.

When I turned back to the sink to finish the last few dishes, I bent over a bit too much. I knew it. I could feel the fabric stretch across my ass, hear the creak of his chair as he adjusted himself. He wasn’t even subtle anymore.

But I didn’t stop. I let him look. It was shameful. But for some reason, I was enjoying this game.

I should be ashamed. My actions felt like a betrayal to my husband but my body chose to disagree.

And just when I thought the moment couldn’t get any thicker, the door banged open.

It was loud, sudden, stupid.

I froze.

And then I heard it—his voice. My husband.

“What… what are you doing?” I asked, stepping forward. Confused.

The old man scowled at him. “What is wrong with you? You come banging like I’ve locked her inside?”

I stared at my husband. He looked… lost. Guilt was written across his face, even before he spoke.

“I was just worried,” he said softly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

I didn’t say anything right then. I didn’t trust what might come out. Anger. Shame. Embarrassment.

We left quietly. I didn’t look back at the old man’s face.

At home, I walked straight to the kitchen, it stung me when I recalled how my actions were in front of the old man. That wasn’t me. That was somebody else. I still love my husband and that's it.

I pulled out the leftovers and reheated them. My hands moved fast, but my heart was slow. Heavy.

When I knocked on the study door and stepped in with his plate, I saw the weight on his shoulders. He looked like a child caught lying.

I placed the plate on the table.

“You didn’t come out,” I said.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me with those sorry eyes.

So I hugged him.

I didn’t know why. Maybe to comfort him. Maybe to comfort myself. He wrapped his arms around me too, tightly. And in that moment, we were quiet. Together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I didn’t reply for a few seconds. Then, “Don’t do that again.”

He nodded.

I sat beside him and explained what happened.

“I was mopping. It really stank in there. He just asked for help with his medicines. I read the labels and put them on the table. That’s all.”

His shoulders eased a little. His eyes softened. I saw relief—and something else. Shame.

I stood up.

“Eat your lunch before it gets cold,” I said and walked out.

But I didn’t forget the way the old man looked at me. Or how my knees felt weak when his feet came near. Or the strange, silent thing inside me that had stirred when I saw him watching.

I didn’t have a name for it.

But I knew it hadn’t been there before.

And now, I wasn’t sure how to make it go away.

Chapter 11: Wife's POV

After handing him his lunch and giving him a quick peck on the cheek, I left him in the living room with his laptop open and that blank stare he always had when work swallowed him whole. I told myself I needed to focus on my own day, but the truth was, even after stepping into the hallway, I could still feel it—the heat burning in my belly. That lingering, shameful little flame I tried to convince myself didn’t exist. The same one I felt earlier when I bent over to wipe the floor in front of the old man and knew, without question, that he was watching me.

I should’ve straightened up right away. Should’ve turned, glared, done something. But I didn’t. I stayed there longer than I needed to, ass stuck out, tits hanging forward inside my shirt, the whole damn pose like some slutty display. And I knew it. I fucking knew it.

I kept telling myself it wasn’t intentional. That it was innocent. But it wasn’t. Somewhere deep down, I liked knowing his eyes were on me. That thrill… that tight flutter between my thighs. It made no sense, and I hated that I felt it. No, I refused to accept it. I wasn't some bored wife looking for attention. Tomorrow, I’d go again to clean, and I’d be careful. Focused. I wouldn’t let myself act like that again. I’d be normal.

The next morning came. When I told him I was heading back to the old man's place, he gave me that awkward little smile and told me to take care. I could see it in his eyes though. That worry. That hesitation. I didn’t want to add to it. So I smiled like I always do and stepped out.

But I felt it again. The little thump in my chest. That soft tingling spark just above my mound, like nerves or something more. I tried to shake it off. Just cleaning. Just chores. I told myself again and again.

The old man greeted me with a smile when I arrived. Too polite. Too calm. Like nothing happened yesterday. Good. That’s how it should be. I walked inside, trying to stay focused, trying not to breathe too deeply because that fucking stench still clung to everything. That old, musty, almost rotten smell that made my nose wrinkle and my stomach twist.

I kept myself busy. Mopping. Dishes. Keeping my ass low, my shirt tucked, refusing to give him a repeat show. He sat quietly on the couch most of the time, staring at some photo frame like it meant the world to him. I didn’t ask. Wasn’t my place. But I didn’t trust him. I knew he was the kind to sneak glances, to “accidentally” brush too close. He hadn’t yet. But I knew better.

Then he got up and disappeared into his bedroom. That felt… off. He usually just sat around and gave unnecessary comments. But now? Quiet and gone?

I wiped my hands dry and figured I’d tell him I was done and leave. But part of me… part of me said no. It told me to stay the fuck out of that bedroom. That nothing good would come from walking in there. But my feet moved anyway.

He was sitting on the bed. Head down. Shoulders slumped. I squinted, trying to see his face. Was he crying? Or just pretending?

I cleared my throat. “I think I’m done, I’ll head out now.”

He looked up at me with this pitiful, almost broken expression. Like a kicked dog. I don’t know why, but something inside me softened. He reminded me of my grandpa. That same lonely, sad look. So I stepped closer and sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

He was holding a picture. I glanced at it—probably his grandson or someone he lost. We made small talk. Stiff and awkward. But the kind you do when someone’s hurting. He told me he felt alone. That no one visited anymore. That being old meant being invisible. And maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was how familiar it felt, but I forgot for a second about the stench and the weird energy and everything else.

Then he asked—quiet, hesitant—if he could get a hug.

I hesitated. I should’ve said no. But something in me cracked. “Sure,” I said, soft. Like an idiot.

He leaned in. I wrapped my arms around his back, and he did the same. Only… not the same. His mouth landed on my neck. Hot, wet breath brushing my skin. I shivered, telling myself it was just the height difference. That his arms were just… misplaced. But one was climbing up my back and the other was clearly moving too low, dragging across the top of my ass like he was trying not to grope, but couldn’t help it.

I froze. I didn’t stop him. Why didn’t I pull away?

His fingers pressed into my flesh. Not hard enough to call it out, but just enough that I could feel the intent. Feel the heat from his palm spreading across my ass like a dirty secret. His mouth lingered near my collarbone, the breath getting hotter, closer.

It disgusted me. Or maybe I disgusted myself. Because even as I told myself this was wrong, something disgusting in me was stirring. That same flicker of heat. That pulse between my legs that I couldn’t explain or kill.

Then his lips actually touched my neck. Full contact. Just once. But I felt it. Felt every wrinkle, every damn nerve fire off at once like an electric jolt of shame and arousal. I shot up, finally, heart racing, breath caught in my throat.

What the hell was I doing? Why did I let it get that far?

I mumbled something about leaving. Couldn’t meet his eyes. Could barely stand the feel of my own skin.

He asked one last thing, voice low. Told me there was a list on the table for some medicines. I didn’t even respond. I just nodded, grabbed the slip, and walked out of that house like it was on fire.

Except the flames weren’t outside. They were in me.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Chapter 12: Wife's POV

After picking the list placed on the table. I stepped out of that house feeling dizzy—not from the heat, or the exhaustion—but from something deeper. Something I didn’t want to name.

His scent still clung to me.

That old, musty, heavy stench from his unwashed clothes, from his breath so close to my cheek when he leaned in too long for that hug. It had crept onto me, soaked into the fabric of my clothes, maybe even into my skin.

I walked home briskly, still flustered. I kept touching my side where his arm had lingered—where his fingers had pressed into the curve of my ass and briefly, unmistakably, softly pressed. My chest felt tight… not with fear exactly… but with something messier.

As soon as I stepped through the gate, I remembered the paper—the small list he had placed on the table, half-folded, with the names of a few medicines scribbled down. I walked quickly toward the nearby pharmacy.

But when I reached the shop, I glanced at my phone and froze.

Over an hour. Shit.

Had I really been gone that long? My stomach flipped. He must be freaking out. And on top of it all… I reeked of that place. Of that man. It wasn’t just the scent anymore—it was the weight of everything that had happened in there. His touch. The way I hadn’t pushed him away fast enough. The flicker of something wrong… or thrilling… I didn’t know anymore.

I caught a faint whiff of it again as I stood there—him, on me.

My panic grew sharper, rising in my throat.

Clutching the medicine bag tightly in one hand, I rushed back toward the house, my footsteps quick, my breath uneven. The further I got from the old man’s place, the more the guilt started clawing up my spine. I shouldn’t have let it happen. That hug. That touch. My silence.

I shouldn’t have liked any of it. But a part of me had.

I rang the bell and left the medicines on the doorstep of the old man’s house. And now I was walking toward our door, drenched in guilt and sweat and something darker. A storm built in my chest as I reached out, hand trembling slightly.

Just as I touched the handle, the door opened.

And there he was—my husband.

His face was stiff, eyes wild with the kind of worry I knew too well. He must’ve been pacing inside, sick with fear. And here I was… the cause of it all.

I quickly straightened up and forced a smile, cheerful like nothing had happened. “Sorry I’m late! I had to go buy some medicines. That’s why it took a bit longer,” I said lightly, hoping my voice sounded natural.

But I saw it in his eyes—he was still tense, still locked in the fear that something had gone wrong.

I reached out, took his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” I said softly, “everything’s fine.”

And for a moment, I thought maybe that was enough. That it would ease the storm I had left behind in him.

The odor hung heavy—sour, musky, corrupted. My chest tightened in panic. My body was betraying me. Again. I didn’t stop to explain. I didn’t dare. I could feel his eyes trailing behind me, confused but cautious, the way he gets when he doesn’t want to start another fight. I headed straight to the bathroom without saying a word. My heart was racing the entire way.

I stripped quickly, throwing my clothes into the basket like they were contaminated. Maybe they were. Maybe I was. Under the harsh shower spray, I rubbed harder than usual, scrubbing at my thighs, my breasts, between my legs—anywhere that he might’ve touched or looked at with those disgusting eyes or anywhere I let him touch. Because I hadn’t pulled away. When the old man wrapped his arms around me earlier, alone with him in that quiet, empty room, I hadn’t protested. I should’ve. But instead… I stood there. Frozen. His hand had slid down my back, gripping my ass—his fingers pressing into the softness just enough to leave a trace of heat behind.

I let out a small, involuntary moan at the memory. My face burned with shame. I hadn’t just tolerated it. Part of me had enjoyed it. My legs had gone weak, my breath hitched in my throat. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust. It was something else—something wrong and twisted and buried so deep inside me I didn’t want to name it.

I stepped out wrapped in a towel, my skin red from the water and the guilt. I saw him waiting for me at the table, lunch already prepared. His smile was soft, gentle. It should’ve made me feel better. But instead, it pierced through me. He was being kind. Thoughtful. Loving. And all I could think about was another man’s hands all over me. The way Ray had grabbed my waist back during the burglary, thinking I was a pillow. The way he didn’t let go even after realizing I wasn’t. His breath had brushed my neck. My body had trembled back then too… not from fear.

I sat down and forced a smile. My husband spoke kindly. We ate in peace. But I wasn’t at peace. Not inside. The food tasted bland, like it wasn’t reaching me. I kept replaying everything—those strange moments with Ray, the hug from the old man, the eyes of strangers whenever I stepped outside. Was it my fault? Was I dressing differently? Was I… inviting it?

After lunch, I excused myself and went to lie down. He went out for some air. I could hear the door shut behind him and only then did I finally breathe again.

My body was still burning. The memories wouldn’t stop circling my mind. Ray's hand, firm on my waist. That moment his lips almost brushed my ear. The hug earlier today, where I felt the old man’s chest press against mine and his hand cup my ass, not by accident but deliberately. I didn’t push him away. Not immediately. I froze. And somewhere, deep in the pit of my stomach, something fluttered—something dark, electric.

I closed my eyes, hand sliding under the waistband of my skirt before I even realized what I was doing. My fingers found the heat instantly. My pussy was already wet. Not damp—soaked. I hesitated for a second, swallowing hard, but then I pushed further, spreading the lips with two fingers and stroking along my slit slowly. The slickness made my fingertips glide easily.

I bit my lip. My body arched slightly as I circled my clit, soft at first, then faster. My other hand slid under my shirt, squeezing my breast—imagining someone else’s hands there instead. Not his. The old man’s rough grip. Ray’s accidental hold in the dark. I started fingering myself, rough now, hungry. Two fingers in, then three. I gasped, trying not to make noise, but the waves were building.

Each thrust of my fingers reminded me how dirty this was. How wrong it was. But that’s what made it hotter. My husband was out, trusting me. Loving me. And here I was, fucking myself with shaking fingers, imagining the way another man’s hand slid under my ass like it belonged there.

The orgasm hit hard. I shuddered, lips parted, chest rising and falling like I’d just run a mile. My inner thighs were slick, my fingers coated. The shame settled in like a blanket afterward. I just lay there, motionless, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

What the hell was happening to me?

This place. These people. Me.

I cleaned myself up quickly, tossed the tissues in the trash, and stumbled into the living room. I turned on the TV just for the noise. I couldn't even focus on what was playing. My heart was still thudding with the aftershock of what I’d just done.

The front door opened a while later. He stepped in, calm and refreshed. His eyes scanned the room, found me, softened again.

He came over. Sat beside me. Put an arm around me.

I leaned into him automatically, resting my head on his chest. He smelled clean. Warm. Familiar.

We cuddled in silence. The TV buzzed softly in the background. On the outside, we looked like any other couple enjoying a lazy afternoon together.

But inside me, something wasn’t the same anymore.

I had tasted something. Something I wasn’t supposed to. And now I didn’t know if I could ever go back.