- Wife’s POV [Part 2]
He found me in the kitchen, drying off my hands after rinsing the dishes.
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“Let’s go out for a bit,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just a walk. I need some fresh air.”
I nodded softly. “Sure.”
It was the first time in a while he asked to go anywhere with me. Not for groceries. Not errands. Not for movies. Just a walk. As we stepped out, I glanced at his face and noticed the tension easing from it. He really needed this.
But so did I.
The cool breeze brushed against my skin, and I felt my own shoulders relax. Not because of the air or the silence, but because we were outside the house. Away from the things I’d done. Away from that pipe under the old man’s sink. From the way he positioned himself. From his thick cock inches from my lips. From the way I couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop imagining the things I’d never dared before.
We stopped at a corner stall and shared ice cream. He laughed when his started dripping and he couldn’t keep up with it, and something in me cracked open. I smiled. I even laughed a little. For a few moments, we felt normal. Like a real couple. Like everything hadn’t changed.
But then… we turned a corner.
“Hey!”
Ray’s voice cut through the quiet, and I stiffened before I even turned around.
He walked up to us, hand raised in that easy, friendly way. He looked more relaxed than usual. Not like the man who stood inside our house that night. Not like the man whose body had been pressed tight against mine in that futon closet, breathing against my neck while we waited for the burglar to leave.
I remembered the feeling of his chest against my back, the warmth of his breath near my ear. I told myself it was just the situation. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was an accident. A necessity.
But now, standing in front of us, Ray smiled easily, casually inviting us to his place for dinner like nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t lingered so close in the dark while I pretended not to notice.
I stayed polite. Smiled. Let my husband do the talking. He exchanged numbers, and Ray walked off.
At home, everything returned to routine. We changed. Brushed teeth. Got into bed.
But I didn’t want to sleep.
Not yet.
The tightness in my chest had crawled lower, settling between my thighs. I needed to let it out. I needed release. I needed to stop thinking about pipes, and closets, and the way the old man’s cock throbbed right near my face while I knelt helplessly beneath his sink. The way he didn’t flinch or adjust. The way he knew I saw it.
I didn’t want to think about that.
But I needed something.
So I slid out of my underwear, let my fingers wrap around my husband’s cock, and took what I needed.
No teasing. No slow touches. I needed to be filled. Fucked. Used. I wrapped my lips around him and sucked hard. I didn’t care how messy it got. I didn’t care that he looked surprised. I wanted him hard. Now. I wanted to ride until I couldn’t think straight.
And I tried.
I climbed over him and shoved his cock into my mouth before he could say anything. He groaned, startled, his thighs tensing under my arms. I didn’t tease or play. I buried him deep, gagged, spit trailing down my chin. My head bobbed fast, wet, sloppy, sucking him with no rhythm, just hunger.
I wasn’t doing it for him—I was doing it for me.
God, I was so wet already. I could feel it soaking my inner thighs, my clit throbbing. I pulled off, eyes locked on him as I straddled his hips and grabbed his cock.
He looked dazed, still catching up.
I didn’t wait.
I lined him up and shoved him inside. My pussy clenched tight around him as I dropped all the way down, groaning with frustration because it still wasn’t enough. He felt good—but not enough.
I started riding, hard and fast. No grinding, no tenderness. Just bouncing. Slapping. Using his cock like it was nothing but a toy.
His hands reached up to touch me, to steady me.
I slapped them away.
Don’t slow me down.
He tried to moan my name, to kiss me—I ignored it. I wasn’t here for love. I was chasing something brutal. Something dirty.
But it wasn’t working.
Every time I bounced high, his cock slipped out. Over and over.
Each time, my frustration grew sharper. My pussy was dripping, clenching, begging. But his cock wouldn’t stay. My body couldn’t grab hold the way it needed to.
And all I could think was—
If it was the old man… if that thick, veiny cock had been inside me… it wouldn’t have slipped out. No matter how high I bounced. No matter how soaked I was. That heavy cock would’ve stayed buried inside me, stretching me, ruining me.
He wouldn’t let me ride him like this. I wouldn’t need to do all the work. He would’ve grabbed my hips, slammed me down, called me his filthy little whore and fucked the breath out of my lungs. He’d make me scream until I broke.
This cock—my husband's cock—it twitched like it was trying. But it wasn’t enough.
I wanted to cum. I needed to. My pussy was soaked, swollen, and still it wasn’t enough.
My clit rubbed against his skin but it wasn’t hitting right. I bounced harder, cursed under my breath. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cum like a slut and forget my name. But it kept slipping out, and every time it did, that ugly thought returned.
If only he were bigger. If only this cock could fuck me the way the old man would. I'd already be cumming. I'd already be wrecked.
I shoved him back in again, forcing myself to focus.
Then I felt his body tense beneath me.
“Shit—I’m gonna—”
And just like that, he exploded inside me.
Warm pulses filled my pussy. His face scrunched up, hips jerking under me as his cum spilled out in spurts. And I… I didn’t feel a damn thing.
My orgasm never came.
I stayed still, his cock twitching inside me, my thighs aching, pussy dripping—but empty. My walls fluttered around him out of habit, not pleasure.
He looked at me, touched my side, asked gently, “Was that… okay?”
I smiled. “Yeah. Of course. I really needed that.”
I kissed his cheek, got up, and walked to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
But I wasn’t done.
Not even close.
I sat on the toilet, legs still trembling, then grabbed a towel, laid it out on the cold tile, and dropped to my knees.
My hand shot between my thighs, fingers sliding through the cum still leaking from my pussy, mixing with my own arousal. I rubbed furiously, two fingers pressing into my dripping hole while my other hand circled my clit.
And the image came back immediately.
The old man. That thick cock on my lips. The weight of it. The veins. The scent. That shameless display. That arrogant confidence like he already owned me.
No,” her mind screamed. “You’re married. You love your husband. You just had sex with him—why are you thinking about—”
“Shut up,” she growled, breath ragged.
“You’re sick. That’s an old man. That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”
“He’s not your husband.”
“You’re going to ruin everything.”
SHUT UP. Fuck these thoughts. Fuck every voice trying to shame me.
Let me masturbate to his thick cock. Let me fucking cum to that image.
I imagined myself on my knees. The old man towering over me, that monstrous cock in hand, slapping it across my face. “You want it, don’t you?” he’d growl. “You need something real.”
“Fuck… yes…”
In my mind, I imagined him grabbing my hair, pulling my head back, whispering in that gravelly voice, “You need to be fucked right, girl.”
Yes. God, yes.
He’d bend me over the bathroom sink, shove that monstrous cock between my legs without asking, spit down on it, and rub the tip against my pussy until I begged. Begged.
And when he finally pushed in…
My fingers slipped lower, two of them thrusting inside. My walls were so tight I moaned out loud, teeth clenched.
I imagined the old man pushing deeper. And deeper. Stretching me past what I thought I could take. My pussy trying to fight it, but failing. His cock forcing its way in, inch after inch, until my belly bulged and I cried out his name.
Not my husband’s.
His.
I pumped my fingers harder. My wrist ached, but I didn’t care.
In my head, I pictured myself bent over, tits pressed to the cold counter, ass up, while he grabbed my hips and fucked me with slow, punishing thrusts. His balls slapping against my soaked skin. My moans echoing in the small bathroom. And him—grinning, growling, watching me fall apart.
“Is this what you wanted?” I imagined him snarling. “Some real cock? Not that little thing your husband gives you?”
My pussy clenched again. My legs twitched.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I fucked myself faster, fingers thrusting deep, grinding my palm against my clit until I was right there—right on the edge.
I pictured him cumming inside me. Not gentle. Not sweet. But deep, possessive. Like he was claiming me.
I imagined his cum leaking out afterward, not dribbling like my husband’s, but pouring, thick and heavy, soaking my thighs, dripping onto the tiles. I wouldn’t be able to hide it. I’d walk funny. Smell like him. Be marked.
Ruined.
That was what I wanted.
And then I came.
Hard.
My whole body shuddered, fingers buried inside, palm crushed to my clit as the orgasm ripped through me like a wave. My mouth hung open, but no sound came out—just the raw, shaking breath of someone who had just fallen apart.
I stayed there, slumped, sweat beading on my chest, thighs soaked.
When I finally looked down, my fingers were still glistening. My pussy red and swollen. Used.
I wiped my hand slowly on the towel and stood up, legs trembling again—but this time, not from frustration.
From aftershocks. And guilt. But I didn’t regret it. Not even a little.
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