18. Wife's POV [Part 1]

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



I was breathless.

This thrill… this filthy, dangerous thrill was unlike anything I had ever experienced. My thighs were still trembling where he’d pressed himself against me seconds ago. I remained by the kitchen counter, not moving, still loosely gripping for balance—the same spot where I’d just been bent over, where the old man’s cock had been grinding hard against my ass through his pants, his breath hot on my back. My body was still buzzing from it.

He said nothing after. Just sat down on the couch like it was routine. Like he knew this was enough for today’s game. No smugness, no words. Just that silent posture, that slight nod as he settled into the cushions, like a man satisfied after marking something that now belonged to him.

I glanced once, and that was enough to understand—he was done. For now.

I quickly stepped out of the house. My legs weren’t steady. My lungs still felt tight, but I forced myself to walk like nothing happened. Just a quiet wife heading home.

I hoped and prayed that he wasn’t downstairs. If he was in the hallway… if he caught me walking in like this—panting, cheeks flushed, the unbearable stench of the old man still stuck to my clothes, to my skin—he’d know. He’d smell it. That thick, sour musk, the faint dampness between my thighs, the leftover guilt. It was still all over me.

And if he suspected something... if he looked me in the eyes right now...

It could be the end.

I swallowed hard.

No. I didn’t want this to end. I didn’t want to give up this... whatever this was. This fun. This thrill. This slow, dangerous spiral I was pretending not to enjoy.

I quietly slipped into the house. The hallway was empty.

Thank god.

I stood still for a moment, listening. No footsteps, no creak of the stairs. Just silence upstairs.

That meant he was still in the workroom. Still sitting at his desk, headphones on, eyes buried in that glowing screen.

Clueless.

Not because he was stupid—because he wasn’t here when it mattered.

It was his fault.

If only he had come downstairs. If only he had just been here when I walked in. He could have smelled it on me. Could’ve caught that scent—the stink of another man’s lust all over his wife. One word from him, one suspicious glance… and maybe it would’ve stopped. Maybe I would’ve come to my senses.

But he wasn’t here.

So now he lost the chance to stop me.

And I wasn’t going to take the blame for that.

I made my way to the bathroom. Closed the door.

The panties were ruined. Damp and sticky. I didn’t want to even look at them. I tossed them into the laundry basket, turned the tap on, and bathed again.

After the bath, I changed into fresh clothes—modest, soft, familiar. I even pulled my hair back like I used to.

I brought him food without a word. Left the tray near his desk while he typed away. He gave me a small smile, thanked me softly.

He didn’t even look at me properly.

And that was what made it worse.

Even now, even today, after everything—he didn’t notice a thing.

Even when I stood right there, freshly washed but still hiding a body that had been used moments ago. He didn’t sense anything.

And I hated that.

Later, when the sun dipped low, he came downstairs and told me it was time to leave for dinner at Ray’s place.

I nodded. Smiled like I was excited.

Then I walked back upstairs and stood before the wardrobe. I paused. Just stared at the dresses hanging neatly before me. Most were safe. Some even frumpy. But I reached for a snug one. Not revealing, not trashy. Just tight. A simple black number that clung softly to my curves. One I hadn’t worn in a while.

I held it up.

It looked harmless and elegant.

But I knew how it fit.

I slipped into it anyway.

Told myself it was just a dress.

But deep down, maybe I wanted to see how many stares it would pull.

We stepped outside not long after. The air was cooling, but my body still felt warm from earlier. I walked beside him quietly, arms folded, pretending to enjoy the weather.

But I could feel them.

The eyes.

From the corners. From the shadows.

It started slow. A head turning here. A glance there. Then came the full-on stares. Hungry. Brazen. Their eyes locked on my ass, some trailing upward across my back, others dropping shamelessly to my chest.

One of them—one of the same greasy men from the neighborhood I’d caught peeking once before—actually raised his eyebrows and made a gesture with his tongue. A slow, wet drag across his lip, followed by a cock-sucking motion with his hand.

Another one smirked and tilted his head toward a narrow alley, like he was silently inviting me.

Did they think I was some cheap whore?

Did I look like that now?

Maybe I did.

But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look at them. I just kept walking, pretending none of it reached me. Pretending I didn’t feel their gaze burning into my skin.

My husband walked beside me. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

We turned the corner, and Ray’s house came into view.

Ray’s house was… huge.

As we stepped inside, both of us fell quiet. My husband looked around, clearly impressed, and I, though still trying to shake off the earlier tension from the walk—couldn’t help but feel a small sense of awe too. The ceilings stretched high above us, the lighting was soft but expensive, and the layout had a strange, elegant symmetry to it.

Ray came down from the upper floor, smiling like it was the most casual thing in the world. He greeted us warmly, and before long he and my husband were already chatting like old friends.

But my eyes couldn’t stop drifting.

The house… it was designed. Not just lived in. Every wall had an artistic texture, every room seemed to flow into the next with hidden passages and deliberate curves. There were alcoves filled with antique sculptures, velvet-lined furniture in corners no one used. Every detail whispered of something intimate and private.

Ray offered to give us a quick tour before dinner. Just to show off a little, he said with a smirk.

We followed him down one of the wide corridors. Eventually, he led us into a room lined with old portraits. Dozens of them. All shapes and sizes. The lighting in the room was dim, but warm—like a museum, carefully arranged to draw your attention.

I felt… mesmerized.

The faces on the canvas were striking. Painted with incredible detail. Some were of women, some of men, some couples. But they all had one thing in common: every expression held something just beneath the surface. A secret hunger.

As I moved deeper into the room, taking it all in, I heard Ray speaking behind me—mentioning something about three holes. I turned just in time to see him gesture toward three separate entrances placed against different walls, each behind a painting.

“Part of the original design,” Ray said casually. “Go ahead, take a look around. I’ll show you something fun.”

I was too caught up in one of the paintings to notice them walking away. Just a whisper of footsteps and then nothing.

I blinked, turned around—and the room was empty. Noone.

Just me.

My breath caught in my throat.

Where the hell did they go?

I glanced at the three holes again, each identical. No labels. No markings. My mind raced. They must’ve gone into one of these. But which one?

I hesitated. For a moment, I considered waiting. But something pulled at me. An odd curiosity. That same thrill that had been pulsing just beneath my skin all evening. I told myself I had no choice. That I just didn’t want to get lost.

So I picked the left one. Crawled inside.

The air inside felt different.

I stepped in.

The hallway curved inward, darker the deeper it went. Each step I took seemed to echo, muffled strangely. The walls were painted a dark burgundy and lit only by dim recessed lights. The deeper I went, the more something strange stirred inside me—like a crawling tension in my stomach.

A sensation I couldn’t name. Not fear. Not exactly.

Something darker.

Finally, I reached the room.

It was dimly lit in red. No windows. Just a quiet hum coming from somewhere above. Velvet curtains lined the corners, and in the center stood a massive, floor-length mirror.

Nothing else.

I walked toward it, confused. The floor was soft beneath my heels. I looked around, unsure if this was some gallery or guest room—or some kind of… exhibit.

Then I faced the mirror.

It showed me. Just me.

Same black dress. Same pinned-back hair. I looked tired. Maybe a little flushed.

But as I stared, something began to feel off.

My face didn’t move. It just… held still. Eyes locked onto mine.

Something about it felt wrong. Like I was being watched from the other side.

I tried to blink, but my reflection didn’t.

It just stared.

And then—it changed.

The shift was subtle at first. My hair became messier. My face flushed deeper, mouth slightly opened. Then the clothes began to… disappear.

The black dress melted away into sheer, nearly invisible lingerie.

A see-through bra. Tiny, transparent panties.

I gasped. Instinctively took a step back. But I couldn’t look away.

The mirror shifted again—and suddenly, they appeared.

Men.

Countless, faceless, towering silhouettes, surrounding the other me. All of them hard. All of them naked. Their cocks bobbed as they closed in on me—on her—and I… I looked excited.

No... Insane.

Grinning, lips open, eyes wild with desire. My reflection moaned silently as she dropped to her knees and began kissing one dick after another. Letting them slap her cheeks, spank her ass. Two of them grabbed her neck, bent her forward. A third shoved himself inside her mouth.

Another was already sliding into her from behind.

I froze.

My heart slammed in my chest. My hands felt cold.

It was me.

It was me. The face was mine. The body, the voice, the movements.

But it couldn’t be.

That wasn’t real.

That wasn’t me.

I would never—

The image blurred, twisted—a cock sliding between my tits, another one pushing against my lips, another stretching me open from behind. I was moaning like a whore. Smiling, begging, writhing in their hands. Cum streaking across my belly. My legs trembling.

My body… loving it.

No. No, this was sick. This wasn’t me.

This was some twisted illusion. Some trick. Or maybe—

Maybe my mind was playing a sick joke.

I tore my eyes away, stumbling back a step.

That couldn’t be me. That version of me… it was too far gone. Too filthy. Too willing.

And yet, deep in my chest, behind the shame, something pulsed.

Arousal.

I stood there, breathless, staring at the mirror again—now just showing my normal reflection, calm, innocent.

Like none of it ever happened.

I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned, and there he was... Ray. Coming from the dim hallway like he’d known exactly where I was all along. His face was calm, casual… but that smile—

It was weird.

As if he knew something.

As if he saw something.