25. Wife's POV [Part 2]

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




Hoooooonnkkkkkk

A sharp noise split the air.

My eyes flew open.

“H-Haaah…! Haaah…!”

Chest heaving, heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to escape. My hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. The room was dark.

It was pitch-black except for the soft glow of the moonlight.

I gasped again, sat upright, blinking fast, trying to adjust. The sound that woke me—maybe it was a car passing, a creak in the walls, I didn’t know. My body felt hot. My skin was slick.

And my pussy was throbbing.

I grabbed the bedsheet with one hand, the other pressed between my thighs as I sat there, stunned, trying to remember where I was. My mouth was dry.

I turned toward him, he was asleep peacefully.

It was just a dream.

Thank God.

I let out a shaky breath and wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. I was still in our bedroom. The ceiling fan was spinning slow and steady. The window was slightly open, letting in a cool breeze.

He wasn’t here. The old man wasn’t here.

I should be relieved that it was just a dream, but the heat between my legs were telling a different story. Sticky and wrong. I shifted my hips, and I felt it. The mess. That slick, wet cling beneath my panties, making them stick to my folds like glue.

Oh God.

I swallowed hard and reached down, hesitating. My fingers brushed over the thin cotton. It was soaked. My breath hitched. I pulled my hand away immediately, heart thudding with a cocktail of disgust and... disappointment.

It was just a dream.

Thank God.

But...

No. I shouldn’t.

I had to clean up. That’s all. Just clean up.

I slipped out from under the blanket, tiptoeing through the dark, the wetness between my legs a humiliating reminder of what my body had done on its own. In the bathroom, I flipped on the light, squinting at the sudden brightness.

My reflection looked flushed. My skin glowed with sweat. My eyes were glassy, dazed. My thighs were glistening. The crotch of my panties clung to my pussy lips, completely soaked through. A thin thread of slick clung between the fabric and my skin.

I stared at the mess. My breath trembled.

This… this wasn’t normal.

It was just a dream. It didn’t happen. But the ache wouldn’t leave. My pussy pulsed softly. like begging me to relieve her. I tried to ignore it. I grabbed a towel. I’d clean, then go back to bed. That was the plan.

Damn it…

I shut my eyes tight.

No. Don’t.

But I was already leaning back against the bathroom wall, the towel falling from my hand. My fingers hovered for a moment… then slowly slipped down inside my cunt. The wetness was still there, still warm. Still begging.

I sighed, a shaky, pathetic sound. I told myself it was just to relieve the pressure. Just to quiet the ache. Just to sleep.

God… How low can I get?

My fingers started moving. Slow little circles at first, lazy and teasing, like I was testing myself. But that dream came roaring back—me on all fours, his cock resting on my pussy, humiliating me.

“Oh god,” I whimpered, biting my lip. “I-I wanted it…”

I felt my other hand sliding up under my shirt, fingers tweaking my nipple, already stiff and aching.

“You’re disgusting,” I hissed to myself. “You woke up this wet from dreaming about someone else’s cock… some filthy old man’s cock…”

I moaned, louder. My thighs were trembling.
“You were begging for it… bouncing back on him like a desperate slut. How pathetic and shameless.”

I rubbed faster, harder, the wet sounds of my fingers against my cunt filling the small bathroom. I didn’t care anymore. I needed it.

“He’s not even your husband… and you… shame on you. You didn’t care. You fucking wanted to get used like a cumrag…”

I gasped, hips jerking up into my palm.

“Wanted to get destroyed…”

I was close. So close. My back arched. My toes curled against the tile.

“You don’t deserve your husband,” I panted.
My fingers wouldn’t stop.

The old man’s voice kept echoing in my head. That low growl in my ear. Mocking and humiliating.

“Mnn... dirty little thing,” I whispered under my breath, “I was gonna take it... I wanted him to... I wanted it so bad…”

I bit my lip, back arching slightly as I rubbed harder, eyes half-closed, hips lifting from the toilet lid I’d sat on.

Knock knock.

My breath caught. I froze, eyes flying open, heart slamming against my ribs.

Shit.

“Hey… everything okay in there, honey?” His voice was muffled through the door, calm, warm—but it made my skin crawl with panic.

I swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, hand still hovering on my soaked pussy.

No. No, no, no.

Did he hear me?? No way, Was I saying it out loud?? Shit.

He was right outside. I felt my cheeks burn. I should’ve felt horrified. And I did—partly.

But another part of me… throbbed.

He was worried. He thought I was sick or hurting. Meanwhile I was here with my legs spread, panting into my palm, soaked from a dream about being fucked by another man. And something about that contrast made me throb even harder. The guilt, the secret, the filthy ache.

I had to answer. Fast.

“O-of course,” I called out, forcing my voice to sound lighter than it was. My throat felt dry. “I’m fine. I am really sorry. I hope I didn’t make you worry. I’m sure you got worried not seeing me in bed.”

There was a pause.

“Yeah, kind of,” he said after a beat. “I woke up and you weren’t there. Thought I heard something weird, like… faint noises or something. Just wanted to check in.”

I swallowed again, forcing a breath into my lungs. My heart still hadn’t slowed. “Oh… that? Just my stomach. It started acting up. I was cursing a little, probably what you heard.”

My voice sounded fake even to me, but I hoped it passed.

“Right,” he said slowly. I could hear the doubt behind it. “That makes sense.”

I winced and added quickly, “Don’t worry. I’ll be out in a few minutes. You go back to bed.”

“I’ll leave the medicine on the table, okay? Just in case. You should take something.”

His kindness made it worse.

“Thank you so much,” I said softly, meaning every word but also hating myself a little more. “And don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay. You better not disturb your sleep any longer because of me.”

I waited. Silence followed. I didn’t dare move. I just sat there, panties pushed to the side, the evidence of my shame still slick on my fingers. Then I heard it—soft footsteps walking away.

My body trembled again, but not from guilt.

That… that rush.

The knowledge that I was still wet for someone else, while my husband stood right outside the door worried, loving, trying to help twisted something darker coil inside me. Like some hidden, filthy part of me was being pulled further into the mess I couldn’t seem to crawl out of.

I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, looking absolutely...

I swallowed hard.

No. I don’t need this.

I don’t need to do this.

My fingers twitched.

One touch. Just one.

I could already feel the relief it would bring. That delicious rush. The fantasy of being pinned, used, stretched wide. His cock buried deep inside me, forcing filthy words out of my mouth.

My thighs clenched.

I squeezed my eyes shut and backed away from the mirror.

“No,” I whispered, half to myself, half in desperation. “You don’t need this. You can stop. You’re not… that weak.”

I am not weak.

No… Alright, I accept that I am weak. I did't know there was a side of me this disappointing.

But at this point, stopping myself from masturbating would be no less than an achievement.

It would be a huge boost to my confidence. A step towards my better future.

My fingers hovered again, betraying me. My body begged.

But I forced a step back.

“You don’t need to do this,” I whispered again, stronger this time. “You can walk away. You can clean up, change, go back to bed. It’s just a dream. You’re in control.”

My legs trembled. My body didn’t believe me. But I kept saying it anyway.

You’re in control. You don’t need this. You’re better than this.

I grabbed a tissue and wiped the slickness away in silence, the cold paper brushing against my tender skin. It wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t enough. But it had to be.

I dropped the tissue in the bin, reached for a fresh pair of panties, and slipped them on with shaking hands. Loose shorts followed. I washed my hands without looking at the mirror again.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, the hallway was still. No sound but the ticking of the distant clock.

I walked back into the bedroom slowly, quietly, easing into the bed beside my husband. I listened to his breathing—deep, steady, unaware.

I pulled the blanket up and faced the wall, pressing my thighs together to dull the pulse still burning low in my belly.

I didn’t need to touch myself.

I didn’t need to finish.

I can overcome this.

I took a breath, firm and slow.

I could fight this.

I had to.