17. Wife's POV [Part 2]

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




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.