12. Wife's POV

NOTE: This fictional story features only adult characters (18+) and portrays consensual interactions throughout.


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.