The moment I stepped into the bathroom, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My heart was pounding, and I could still feel the oil on my fingers, the smell clinging to my skin. I scrubbed harder than necessary, trying to get rid of it—no, trying to erase what it reminded me of. That room. That old man. That… moment.
I wasn't proud of how long I stayed there. But I didn't want him—my husband—to smell it. That strange, musky oil that didn't belong in our house. I didn't even want to look him in the eye just yet. Not when my thoughts were this tainted. Not when I could still feel that man's eyes on my chest and that thick shape twitching under his shorts.
God.
I shouldn't be thinking about that.
But I was.
Even as I stood under the water, even as I lathered soap up and down my thighs, that moment kept replaying. His eyes—blatantly watching my breasts move as I massaged his legs. The slow way he asked me to massage higher. The way his length reacted to my touch, thick and heavy under the fabric. I shouldn't have looked. But I did. And it shocked me—how big he was, especially for a man his age. It was the kind of sight you didn't just forget.
I wasn't supposed to enjoy it. I knew that. But the heat between my legs as I rubbed that oil on him, the way my breath caught when his thigh shifted and brushed against my hand—I can't lie to myself. A part of me was excited. Scared, but excited.
I told myself I was just helping. Just being polite. But I felt the shift inside me. Something was starting to crack. This game between us—it had started without me noticing. And now… I wasn't sure I wanted to stop it.
The afternoon was passing like a blur. Later, around lunchtime, I stepped quietly into his workspace with a plate of food in my hands. I didn't say anything—just set it down gently on his desk, letting the soft clink of the plate speak for itself. I didn't want to break his concentration, just be there, offer something simple and warm.
He looked up and smiled, and that made something loosen in my chest. We started talking while he ate—about his projects, the deadlines piling up, the tiny wins that helped him keep going.
I listened, nodded, gave small replies where I could.
I'd glance at him—my husband, sitting right across from me. I saw him smile, joke, talk about work as if nothing had changed.
But something had.
Something in me.
It was hard to sit still. I could still feel that oil between my fingers, the slippery texture of it on my palms. I had washed my hands, yes. Twice. But I could still feel it. Worse, I could still smell it. The old man's scent. That thick, musky heat that now felt like it was soaked into my skin. And buried beneath it, something more disturbing—my own arousal.
I had touched something I shouldn't have. I had watched it twitch, felt the heat of it even without ever wrapping my fingers around it. That flinch from beneath his shorts had branded itself into my mind. The thickness. The length. Shameless, bold. Not what I expected from an old man. And now, even as I sat across from my husband, I couldn't stop remembering how close I'd come to touching it.
It was eating at me. And the worst part? A piece of me wanted to feel it again.
I needed air. I needed to get out.
Groceries. I told him I needed groceries. It was the only excuse I could grab in the moment. He didn't ask questions, just nodded and waved me off like always. He trusted me. That trust made my chest hurt.
The air outside was warm, a bit too still, but the walk back home helped steady my nerves after what happened earlier in the day. My legs still felt weak from the oil massage incident—his words, the way he stared, the way he moaned… it was all too much. I had barely managed to stop myself from looking down between his legs again. I kept telling myself it wasn't right. That I was married. That I was loyal. That I loved my husband. But then why was I… curious?
My arms were full of grocery bags when it happened.
I heard the soft thud before I saw it.
A small box hit the ground right in front of me. I bent down instinctively to pick it up, expecting a wallet or keys—but froze the second I read what it was.
A condom box.
Not just any condom. Extra large.
I froze for a second, blinking as if I might've misread the label. But it was right there—bold, clear. My cheeks flushed with heat as my eyes instinctively tried to guess just how big that size must be. I remembered the shape I saw under the old man's shorts—thick, swollen—but the idea that this young man needed this size too?
I quickly turned and noticed him—walking ahead, completely casual.
"Hey!" I called out, forcing myself to sound neutral.
He turned, and I almost wished he hadn't. The same cocky, slow smirk spread across his face. That lazy, confident kind of look that said he knew exactly what I was holding.
He walked back slowly, not hurried. Like he wanted me to keep looking at that box.
When he got closer, he noticed the condoms in my hand. His eyes flicked from the condom to my face, then slowly—intentionally—down to my chest. I could feel it. The way his gaze paused there. I was wearing a fairly snug top, and I knew how my breasts moved when I walked. My breathing had quickened, which probably wasn't helping.
I held out the box. He took a second, and then smirked.
"Oh?" he said lazily, not even reaching for it. "What's this?"
His eyes dropped to the box and then slowly crawled back up to meet mine. "Wow. I didn't know you go around giving condoms to random guys, ma'am."
The way he said "ma'am"—mocking, teasing, almost dripping with something filthier—made my skin tingle uncomfortably. I looked away, flustered. "It just fell from your pocket."
A pause.
Then he laughed, low and deep. "Right. My bad. That's mine. The large size, of course. Can't believe I didn't feel it fall. I was on my way to meet my girl—you know how it is. Gotta be prepared."
His grin widened. "I'm sure you understand. A married woman like you… you'd know how important this kind of thing is."
He finally took it from my hand, but his fingers brushed against mine as he did, slow and deliberate. I pulled back, heart pounding. I turned quickly and hurried back toward the house, my heels clacking faster than they should.
And that's when I saw him—my husband—watching me from the balcony. My stomach sank. I didn't know how much he had seen. I raised the grocery bags like it was just any other day. "Look at all this!" I called, voice way too cheerful, praying he didn't notice the way my hands trembled.
Back inside, I headed to the kitchen and forced myself to focus on sorting the groceries. I couldn't stop thinking about that stupid box. About the size. About the way he had looked at me—like I was something to be tasted.
And it didn't help that I kept remembering the sounds I'd heard that night—the same young man, with the married woman. Her moans. Loud, wild, raw. There was no pretense. No shame. She had screamed for it, for him. Like a woman completely undone.
I had hated hearing it at first. But now… now it played on loop in my head.
The lights were dim. The house had finally quieted down. My husband had fallen asleep on the bed beside me, his breathing soft, even. He looked so peaceful… like always. That same gentle look on his face that had never changed. Kind. Trusting. Safe.
And yet—I wasn't.
I lay there beside him, my eyes open in the dark, wide awake and restless. My thighs shifted slowly, quietly under the blanket. There was a throb between my legs again. That ache that wouldn't go away. It wasn't because of the man sleeping next to me.
It was because of them.
The neighbors.
That young guy. That smug bastard who dropped a condom right in front of me like it meant nothing. But it wasn't just a condom. It was large size. Thick. Heavy in the box. That wasn't something I could unsee, unfeel. He didn't even bother hiding it. And when I offered it back, he looked at me with that same slow, daring stare—like he wanted me to notice exactly what he was packing. Like he knew it would get under my skin.
And worse… it did.
My husband stirred a little beside me, murmured something in his sleep, and then settled again. I turned to look at him. His lips were slightly parted. His face relaxed. He always looked so... harmless. So sweet. He wouldn't hurt anyone. He wouldn't lie. He wouldn't even think of doing the things that man next door did.
The contrast made my heart sink and my pussy throb harder.
My fingers curled under the blanket, nails slightly digging into my thigh as I tried to fight it. But my mind wouldn't stop spinning. I remembered it clearly—that night we had returned from watching movie.
The raw, filthy moans from the young man's house. The sounds of a woman getting fucked, not made love to. Loud, sharp cries, gasps—wet, obscene noises that echoed through the night. The way her voice cracked like she couldn't take it anymore and yet wanted more.
And then another day. That other woman who later turned out to be married. The one who sneaked up to his door, her eyes darting around like a teenager having an affair. My husband thought noticed as well. But I saw more. The way the young man yanked her wrist, grabbed her ass like it belonged to him. That grin—filthy, arrogant, dominant. His eyes flicked to me for a moment as he pulled her inside. He knew I was watching. He wanted me to see. He wanted me to imagine what would happen once that door closed.
I started imagining it.
She was probably bent over his couch, her ass red from the slaps, her legs shaking from the force of each deep thrust. His cock—thick, long, young—stretching her open in ways her husband probably hadn't in years. I imagined her gasping for air as he held her by the neck, whispering filth into her ears, pounding her like she was nothing but his personal plaything. I pictured her face twisted in pleasure, drool on her lips, eyes unfocused from the intensity of it all.
And what shook me most was the thought that she wanted this. That she craved it. That she let him—a man younger than her.
And I—what was I doing?
Lying beside a kind man who never raised his voice. A man who smiled at me even when he was tired. Who trusted me to go out and come back without question. Who never suspected a thing.
I turned my head slowly and looked at him.
My husband.
Peaceful. Loving. Everything a good man should be.
But my pussy ached—and not for him.
It throbbed with a need I couldn't tame, a heat that had built up not from the man beside me… but from those other men. The old man and his obscene thickness twitching under his shorts. The young neighbor with that cock so big it needed an extra-large condom. The way he talked to me like I was already halfway his.
I wasn't touching myself anymore.
I was fucking myself with my fingers now—two,three deep inside, slick and fast, my other hand smothering the sounds in my mouth as I tried not to wake him. My legs trembled as the thoughts spun faster in my head. I imagined the old man grabbing me from behind, oil slick on my back as he pushed his cock between my thighs. I imagined the young guy holding me down, condom tight around his thick shaft, shoving himself into me until I broke.
My husband stirred lightly and turned in his sleep.
I froze.
Guilt stabbed at my chest. What the fuck was I doing?
But the throbbing between my legs didn't stop. It begged for more. My soaked fingers curled again. I shut my eyes, trapped in that wicked place between shame and raw lust.
This wasn't me. This wasn't who I was. But I didn't stop. I couldn't.
Because even as my body shuddered and I came silently in the dark, my mind was already drifting toward the next excuse, the next visit… the next time I might hear those moans—or maybe, become the one making them.