15. Wife's POV [Part 2]

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




The moment he shut himself in the room for work, I let out a deep sigh.
Four more days.

How was I supposed to survive the next four days like this? Every morning was starting to feel heavier, not because of anything he did, but because of what I had become. The way I smiled at him just now, acted calm, cooked breakfast like always... it all felt like I was wearing a mask that was starting to crack.

Every step I took toward the old man’s house pulled me deeper into something I didn’t want to name.

And yet... My chest felt tight with anticipation.

Was I getting excited? Was I actually expecting something to happen today too??

I shook the thought off and tried to convince myself that it was just anxiety. Just nerves. But even I didn’t believe that anymore. Not really. Not with the way my thighs clenched every time I walked through that gate.

He opened the door as usual, disgusting smile on his face—but behind those smile, I knew something waited. Something that had already begun corrupting me.

I quickly got to work—dusting, tidying, folding some of his clothes. The routine helped me forget my thoughts. For a little while.

Then came the mopping. Then the dishes. He sat behind me on the couch, eyes boring into my back. Once, that stare used to make my skin crawl. Now? My body didn’t flinch. My pulse still jumped every time he stood up, but not from fear. Not exactly.

I was... tuned to his movements. Every small sound, every footstep. I kept wondering when he would walk up behind me again. Look for ways to touch me.

I hated how part of me looked forward to it.

A few more minutes passed before he finally said something.

“Hmm, the pipe under the sink’s acting up again,” he muttered casually. “Can’t fix it myself. Would you mind holding it in place from below while I tighten it from above?”

I nodded, voice tight in my throat. “Sure.”

The sink did seem to be dripping. Not heavily, but enough to justify his claim. I crouched down, reached under, and gripped the pipe with both hands, adjusting my position until it felt steady. My focus narrowed to that one task—holding it firm and doing it quickly so I could leave.

He stood beside me a moment later, some tools in hand. His presence was close. Too close. But I didn’t dare glance at him yet.

And then— A musky and sharp scent hit me. Familiar.

I turned slightly, and there it was.

His cock.

Inches from my face.

I froze. Not touching—but so close. I could feel its heat. I stared in shock, my eyes locked on that thick shaft. One slight movement of my head and...

God.

I swallowed hard, heat rushing up my chest to my cheeks. I tried to focus back on the pipe. On the job. But my mind was spinning. That dick—I’d seen it before. Massaging its thick, veiny shape through his pants. The size was unmistakable.

And now it was right in front of me.

So close I could smell it.

My pussy clenched.

A warm itch spread from deep in my belly to between my legs. My grip on the pipe tightened, knuckles turning white, like I was holding on to my last scrap of control.

I turned my face again, this time not accidentally. I looked at it—long and thick, outlined perfectly beneath his loose shorts.

Wetness gathered in my panties.

What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I look away?

And then—he shifted. Just a little.

Closer.

Now it was right there.

I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. What could I say? You’re disgusting? Move away? But my mouth stayed shut. After all... I wasn’t the one doing it. It was him. The shameless old man bringing his dick to my face.

I sneaked a glance up at him, lifting my brows in a silent question—what are you doing?

And I saw it.

That stare.

Mocking. Humiliating. Degrading.

He didn’t even try to pretend. His eyes told me everything: You know where you belong.

I quickly looked away, face flushed, heart hammering. My hands shook slightly on the pipe. I could hear him rummaging through the tools again, like none of this was happening.

Was this a game to him?

Why did my body feel like it was on fire?

I cursed under my breath, and still—still—I turned my face back one more time.

One last look.

That cock was bulging now.

Throbbing slightly beneath the fabric.

I was soaked. My panties clung to my folds, slick and needy. My thighs squeezed together in a hopeless effort to soothe the pulsing between them.

But I couldn’t.

And I didn’t know how long I could keep pretending.

His cock was boldly pushing through the soft fabric of his shorts, hanging thick and low, not even trying to hide. It was so close. Barely inches from my face. The tip formed a clear shape beneath the cloth, full and heavy and hard.

I froze.

My lips opened the smallest bit, and I immediately regretted it. Because now, they felt... dry, exposed and hungry.

I should’ve pulled away. I should’ve gasped. I should’ve screamed in disgust. But I didn’t.

I couldn’t stop looking.

God... it was big and thick. I could see the outline of the veins through the thin material. My breath caught in my throat, and I realized I was staring like some desperate, depraved woman... lips twitching like they wanted to be used.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I shouldn’t be thinking about how that cock would feel inside my mouth. I shouldn’t be wondering what it tastes like, how heavy it would feel resting on my tongue. But my lips were tingling...literally tingling—with shame and something darker.

And then... he moved.

Just an innocent shift forward. A half-step. A lean.

But it wasn’t innocent at all.

His cock pressed right against my lips.

I didn’t even get time to react.

The soft fabric touched my mouth—warm, slightly damp and underneath, the firm, pulsing shape of his dick pushed right into me. Not harsh. Just enough to feel it. And I did. Every curve. The blunt head. The heat.

My mouth stayed open like a fucking idiot.

I didn’t pull away. Not right away. I just knelt there, letting his cock rest on my lips like they belonged there.

Oh my God.

My thighs squeezed together. My nipples hardened instantly. My whole face burned. But worse than the embarrassment was the... craving.

My tongue twitched in my mouth, desperate to flick out and lick him through the cloth. I hated it. I hated that I wanted it. That I hadn’t moved. That some filthy part of me wanted him to push harder—to shove it in.

When I finally realized what I was doing, what I’d allowed—I pulled my head to the side with a quiet gasp. My lips stayed parted, wet and trembling. I felt them still tingling from the contact.

And I hated how empty my mouth felt without it.

He said nothing. Just kept working. Pretending.

But I knew. We both did.

His cock had just kissed my mouth.

And my mouth... wanted more.

He finally stopped, tossed the wrench aside, and stepped back. I heard him walk a few feet away. But I still hadn’t moved.

I was still kneeling there, face hot, thighs clenched, breathing uneven.

Then I heard his voice, calm and casual:

“You’re not going to stand up?”

I looked up, startled. He had turned slightly, glancing at me over his shoulder.

His lips curled into a smirk.

“Looks like you’re enjoying sitting there.”

My entire body stiffened. I scrambled to stand, muttering, “I—No, I was just—”

But he was already walking away. Whistling again. Like none of it mattered.

My lips still tingled. My knees still ached from how long I’d knelt.

And deep between my legs, I felt a pulsing heat that refused to die down.