Read Husband's POV before reading it from Wife's POV.
CuckoldPlace.com
Chapter 1: Wife's POV
I'd been looking forward to this move.
A fresh start. A quieter life. Just the two of us, away from the noise and rush. The pictures had looked beautiful–trees lining the roads, neighbors smiling, clean sidewalks where kids played. It seemed… safe. Like a dream I didn't even realize I needed.
But the moment we turned onto the street, my chest tightened.
It was too quiet. The kind of quiet where you hold your breath without realizing it. Where you feel like you shouldn't speak too loudly, even though there's no one around.
I stepped out first. My legs were stiff from the drive. The sun felt nice, but the air… didn't. It was like walking into a room where someone had just been talking about you. That strange hush, like something had paused.
I bent down to grab the bag that had slipped from my lap. And that's when I felt it.
Eyes.
Not the curious kind. Not the polite glance. Just… eyes. Heavy. Creepy.
I looked up and saw him–an old man across the street, slouched in a plastic chair. His shirt looked thin and worn, and he just… stared. Not blinking. Not smiling.
Right at me.
My face flushed instantly. I stood up straight and looked away, pretending not to notice. I didn't know what to do. I felt silly for feeling uncomfortable–he was just an old man, right? But something about his eyes made me feel… uncomfortable. Not seen. Just looked at.
I didn't want to say anything. It felt too awkward to bring up. Maybe I was just being sensitive.
My husband stepped between us. I saw him glance over, then back at me. His jaw was tight. He didn't say a word either, just carried a box inside.
So I followed him.
As we unpacked, I tried to distract myself. But the house didn't feel right either. It looked clean in the pictures, but up close, it was like a mask was peeling off. The doors didn't close properly, the windows let in too much air, and the whole place had this strange… worn-out feeling.
Still, I smiled and said it would be fine. Because that's what you do when you're trying to be hopeful.
Later, I stepped outside to fix the doormat. I wanted it to look nice, like a real home. I didn't even notice them at first–two men walking down the street, shirts clinging to their skin from the heat.
Then I felt it again.
That weight. That watching. When I looked up, they were already looking at me.
I glanced away quickly, pretending to focus on the mat, my fingers fidgeting with the corners even though it was already straight.
I didn't understand why it made me feel so… nervous. I wasn't doing anything. I wasn't even dressed up. I wasn't trying to get attention.
But it didn't matter.
I knew my husband saw them too. I felt his gaze from inside the house–he always noticed more than he let on. I felt guilty, like I'd done something wrong just by existing in their line of sight. And I hated that feeling.
That night, as we sat on the floor with food between us, he looked at me and asked:
"Do you feel it too?"
I looked at him, confused. "Feel what?"
Then it hit me. Like a wave crashing over still water– the meaning behind his question. I felt it too. But the joy he once carried about leaving the noise behind and building a new life together… I didn't want to be the reason he questioned it. I didn't want to scare him. Or admit how weird everything felt. I didn't want to be that wife–too jumpy, too sensitive, too much trouble over nothing.
But the truth was, I already knew something felt off.
This place didn't feel like a beginning. It felt like something was already in motion. Something we hadn't agreed to.
That night as we lay in bed, I curled into him. His arm around my waist always made me feel safe, like nothing could reach me. But even with him holding me, I couldn't stop thinking about that old man. Those men on the street. The way they looked at me like I wasn't really a person.
Just… something else.
And I didn't know what to call that feeling yet.
But I knew I didn't like it.
Chapter 2: Wife's POV
By morning, he seemed calmer, more settled. I could tell by the way he poured me tea suggesting visiting the neighbors, his eyes not as restless as yesterday. Maybe things weren't as strange as they'd felt. Moving always came with a whirlwind of emotion, and we hadn't exactly been at our best. I didn't want to assume the worst about anyone just yet.
When he suggested visiting the neighbors, I gave a small nod affirming, the gesture would be nice. The skirt I wore clung a bit more than I remembered, but I didn't give it too much thought. We were just delivering fruit. I liked the gesture. It felt like something normal people did — simple, kind.
As I reached for the basket, I caught him looking at me, his eyes dropping for a second before flicking away. I pretended not to notice, focusing on the weight of the fruit, trying not to trip over the mat on our way out. I always worried about falling at the worst moments.
The house next door looked in a very terrible condition. Even worse than ours. When the door opened, I was hit by a wave of something unpleasant — mildew mixed with… something else I couldn't place. The man standing in front of us was older, his clothes stained and hanging from him, his expression too eager, eyes a bit too sharp for the smile he wore.
He stared at me longer than he should have. I felt it almost immediately, like a prickle under my skin. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and stayed quiet while my husband introduced us and offered the fruit. The man's gaze didn't leave me. It was unsettling, but I didn't want to be rude.
When he invited us in, I looked to my husband, hoping he would politely decline. But he hesitated too, then gave me a look before nodding. So I followed.
Inside, the smell was worse. The air felt sticky, like it had been trapped for years. The furniture was worn and the walls were streaked with brownish stains. I wanted to breathe through my mouth, but that felt obvious, so I tried not to react.
We sat, and the old man talked. A lot. His stories rambled and rarely made sense. I kept my hands folded neatly in my lap and smiled when it felt expected. But I could feel his eyes whenever I shifted — when I adjusted my t-shirt, when I smoothed my skirt. It wasn't subtle. He watched like I was something… edible. It made me want to curl into myself, but I didn't know how to excuse us politely. My husband didn't say anything either. Maybe he didn't notice.
But I think he did.
The man's eyes always found their way back to my chest or my legs, his stare lingering a beat too long each time. I kept my posture still, uncertain. My heart was picking up speed, but I smiled when spoken to and nodded when I was expected to. It felt like I was playing a role I didn't audition for.
When my husband finally stood, saying we needed to head back, I almost sighed in relief. I stood too, smoothing the back of my skirt, trying not to rush to the door.
But the man stopped us.
He mentioned some custom — a hug for guests. His smile didn't reach his eyes. I watched my husband step forward first, offering a brief, reluctant hug. Then he turned to leave. Just as I started following my husband to the door.
The man was already in front of me.
He looked down at me, his voice lower now, and asked for one from the "lady of the house." His tone felt heavier, stickier. I didn't know what to say. Saying no felt wrong, like it would make things worse. Saying yes felt worse still.
So I hesitated.
And then, unsure, I stepped forward. I told myself it was just a hug. A strange one, sure, but brief. Harmless. Maybe he was just eccentric. Maybe I was overreacting.
His arms wrapped around me slower than they should have. One hand rested on my back, and the other slid lower than was appropriate. He held me with a grip that felt too strong for someone that old. My arms hung awkwardly, hovering in the air, not knowing where to land.
He leaned closer, his cheek brushing my hair, his breath uncomfortably warm. I couldn't move. His hand stayed just above the curve of my backside, fingers pressing just firmly enough to be noticed, not enough to provoke a scene. My body froze, my breathing uneven. I didn't return the embrace, but I didn't resist either. I couldn't seem to.
When my husband cleared his throat, it felt like the room cracked open. The old man pulled back, slowly, letting his hand drag across my waist longer than necessary.
My skin crawled.
Outside, I didn't say anything. I just adjusted my skirt and tried to smooth my breathing. My face felt warm, my scalp prickled. I didn't look at my husband. I didn't know what he saw, or what he thought. I wasn't sure what I felt.
Ashamed? Embarassed? Confused?
But I couldn't find the words to explain the hug. Or the way I froze. Or how long it lasted.
So I said nothing.
And somehow, that silence made everything feel worse.
Chapter 3: Wife's POV
The door closed softly behind us, the sound echoing a little too sharply in the quiet afternoon. I felt the coolness of the air, but instead of relief, a strange heat settled in my chest — not warmth from comfort, but from something heavier, a flutter of discomfort I couldn't quite place.
He stayed silent beside me. I could tell something was on his mind, but when I glanced at him, I chose calmness. No need to stir the air with worries that might be nothing.
Inside, I slipped off my slippers and moved to the kitchen, trying to shake off the weight of the strange encounter.
"Next time," I said lightly, pulling my hair into a bun, "we should bring candles. That place feels like it needs light more than anything else." I smiled softly, hoping to lift the moment.
He laughed, but it sounded forced.
Our home welcomed us back with its warm glow — everything felt right, yet I too sensed an invisible shadow trailing behind us. Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe it was just unfamiliarity. Maybe the old man's hug was just awkward, nothing more.
Later that evening, we went out to watch a movie — a gentle story about new beginnings. I laughed when it felt natural, leaned in close when the quiet moments came. His hand found mine, and for a while, the strange tension loosened. I wanted to believe nothing was wrong.
Coming back from the movie, the night wrapped around us like a soft blanket. Most homes were quiet, but one stood awake — its windows glowing, sounds spilling into the street.
A woman's voice, raw and untamed, broke the quiteness. It wasn't pain, but something wild, alive, and unhidden.
I felt my fingers tighten around his. I didn't want to look at the window — not because of shame, but because some things are not ours to understand.
My cheeks warmed, and I quickened my steps. No words. No explanations. Just a silent wish to leave the noise behind.
At home, I moved through the familiar motions: cardigan off, water poured, light talk exchanged. I was quieter, yes — but steady.
Later, when the house was dark and sleep near, the sounds returned — louder, fiercer. The woman's cries filled the night again.
I lay still, half-aware, neither disturbed nor drawn. Something in me listened quietly, distant and calm.
His hand found my waist, and I leaned in, meeting his kiss with an eagerness that surprised me — a spark between us, born from the complexity of the night.
We made love in a way that felt new and familiar all at once, a dance of closeness and release. I wanted him to feel safe, to believe in the comfort we shared here, in this new place.
When it ended, I turned away from the window, seeking peace in the dark. He stayed awake, and I wondered what thoughts raced behind his eyes.
But to myself I kept repeating these words:
We are happy. We are home.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments between heartbeats, I feel a ripple of something else — a question without a name.
Chapter 4: Wife's POV
The morning sun was generous, casting a golden hue on the counter as I mindlessly stirred the pot. But even the warmth outside couldn't shake the heaviness in the air between us. He greeted me with more energy than I expected — a forced cheerfulness that didn't quite match his tired eyes.
"Good morning," I replied, managing a polite smile.
He reminded me gently that he'd need his lunch early. I quickly drew all my focus on preparing the lunch. As he walked away to bathe, I found my thoughts drifting again. We had barely unpacked, the new house still felt unfamiliar, and the silence of the neighborhood made every sound echo twice as loud.
When he came back and mentioned a hole in the bathroom wall, I felt my stomach clench slightly. "A hole?" I asked.
He brushed it off — said it was nothing, just some old pipe space, covered from the other side. I nodded, but the mention of it lingered in my mind longer than I liked.
After he left, the day passed slowly. I changed my clothes — the morning ones had become sticky with the heat. It was evening but I was sweating, the fan doing little to help. I picked a more comfortable dress from my suitcase. Simple, yes, but it fit me well.
I headed to the kitchen to fill a bottle of water, but when I turned the tap, nothing came. Not even a dribble. "Oh no," I whispered. I stared at the sink, hoping maybe if I waited, some magic would happen. The thought of asking someone for help didn't feel right. I was stranded, hoping the water would just… fix itself.
I was still caught up in my thoughts when I stepped in my gallery to get a bit of air, the breeze brushing against my skin. That's when I noticed him — a young man leaning casually near the gate. He looked up and caught my eye, then smiled — not just politely, but with a certain charm that made it hard to ignore.
"Hello, miss," he said, his voice relaxed and confident. "I'm your neighbor. If you ever need help with anything… just let me know."
There was a flicker of something in his eyes — playful, curious — and before I knew it, the broken tap flashed in my mind. I found myself telling him about it, almost instinctively, my voice a little softer than usual.
He stepped in casually, scanning the sink. "Let's see. Sometimes there's a small valve under the sink. Can you check if there's one?"
I bent down, trying to find the valve he mentioned beneath the sink. My hands brushed around aimlessly — there didn't seem to be anything there. But then, suddenly, I became aware of the position I was in… the way my back arched, the way my skirt had shifted slightly. And more than that — I felt it. That invisible weight of a stare, lingering over me, tracing places no hands had touched. It wasn't loud or obvious, but it was there — like someone was slowly feeling me with their eyes.
I quickly stood up, flustered. I didn't say anything, but I was embarrassed. It wasn't that he had touched me — he hadn't. But something about the moment, the angle, the way he stood — it made me feel… exposed.
"There's no tap under here," I mumbled.
He chuckled lightly. "Ah, then it must be connected inside. Let me try the bathroom."
He walked in confidently, like it wasn't his first time navigating someone else's house. A minute later, I heard the sink come to life — water flowing, strong and steady.
"See?" he said, stepping out. "It was this little valve here." He explained something about the connection, stepping a little closer with each word.
I nodded, still not looking him in the eye. I just wanted him to leave.
And then I heard the familiar voice at the door. "Hello."
My heart stopped. My husband was back. The man turned around, flashing an easy grin and greeted him back.
I stepped back, trying to steady my breath. I wasn't hiding anything, not really, but the whole situation suddenly felt… wrong. Like I had allowed something in, unintentionally.
"Go wash up," I said quietly, turning away. "I'll make dinner."
At the table later, I told him the truth — mostly. That the water had stopped, and the neighbor helped. That I didn't know what else to do. He listened, silent but watching.
I smiled at him as naturally. But the way he looked at me — like he wanted to believe me, but something held him back — it unsettled me more than anything else that day.
Still, when he kissed me good night, I leaned into him. Wanting things to feel normal. Wanting to believe they still were.
But even as we lay there, breathing side by side, I felt it — a quiet space growing between us, filled with words neither of us dared to speak.
Leave a Reply