I couldn't look at him.
Not properly, not for more than a second. Every time I tried, my heart twisted and my throat tightened with something too heavy to swallow. Shame, maybe. Or guilt. Or the sickening mix of both, crawling just beneath my skin.
His hand was warm in mine, but it didn't feel like warmth. It felt like accusation. A quiet one. Like he was holding me not because he wanted to—but because he didn't know what else to do.
We walked in silence, the soft thud of our shoes against the pavement the only sound between us. I glanced at his face, hoping to read something—anger, confusion, disgust, anything but he just stared ahead, like he wasn't really there. Like he is still not able to process what just happened. Like part of him had stayed behind in that room, staring at the way Ray had bent me over and dry-humped me in front of everyone.
No, not everyone.
Just him.
My husband.
And I let it happen.
I should've stopped. The moment Ray's hands grabbed me, when he pressed himself into me, when his crotch locked tight against my ass and I felt the thick shape of his erection—God, even thinking about it now made my legs weak. I should have pulled away. I should have ended it. But I didn't. I allowed it. I moved with him. I let him grab me, touch me, grind into me like it was his right. I gave in so easily, too easily. And worse—I knew my husband was watching.
That thought alone made my heart sink and my pussy clench at the same time.
What kind of woman does that?
A part of me wanted to believe it was the music. The heat of the room. I hadn't planned it. I hadn't gone there thinking I'd let another man paw at me like that. It just happened. Slowly, naturally and wrongly. Ray was bold, and I didn't stop him. I didn't even resist. And when I bent over for him, feeling the stretch of my dress lift up, exposing my bare ass—I knew my husband could see. I knew he was watching.
And it made me wetter.
That's what scared me the most.
It wasn't just what Ray did. It was how I reacted to it. My breath had hitched when he grabbed me. My hips had started moving with his. My fingers had curled into the rug when he bent me low and rutted against me like a beast. It wasn't just dancing. We both knew it. It was filthy and brazen. And I had played along like it was normal, like my husband wasn't sitting there with wide eyes.
Because I saw it. I saw the way he stared. And instead of feeling shame… I felt power. Sick, twisted, dangerous power. The power of being watched. Of being claimed and used by one man while my husband sat helpless and humiliated just a few feet away.
That shouldn't have excited me. It should have made me recoil. But my body had a mind of its own. My nipples had stiffened inside my bra. My thighs had clenched around the slippery wet heat that had soaked my panties. Every time Ray's hips ground into my ass, I felt it—my arousal, my guilt, my betrayal, all turning sticky between my legs.
And now here I was, walking beside him in silence, too ashamed to speak.
He hadn't said a word the entire way. Not one. And his silence hurt more than shouting ever could.
I risked another glance. He looked pale. Distant. Broken in a quiet, private way. I wanted to reach for him. To say something. Anything. But what could I possibly say? "Sorry I let another man hump me while you watched"? "It didn't mean anything"? I didn't even believe that last one myself.
Because it had meant something.
Ray's hands had been firm. Possessive. The way he touched me—it wasn't random. It was deliberate. He was showing off. Flaunting me like a toy. Marking me, in a way. And I let him. I even responded. I moved with him like my body had been waiting for it. Like it knew exactly what to do.
And my husband had done nothing to stop it.
Nothing.
That, too, filled me with emotions I didn't know how to sort. Guilt, yes—but also disappointment. Where was he? Where was the man who should've stood up, pulled me away, demanded it end? Instead, he sat there, watching, his face blank. And maybe that's why I didn't stop either. Maybe some part of me needed to know—how far would he let it go? How far would I?
I hated that part of me. The one that craved being desired, even at the cost of his pain. The one that found thrill in the wrongness of it all. But it was there. And the more I thought about it, the wetter I felt. I could still feel the ghost of Ray's bulge grinding between my cheeks, the memory of his fingers gripping me like I was already his. And him sitting there watching everything happen.
Maybe he was confused? Shocked?. Maybe he hadn't expected for ray to push things this far, excusing it as a dance and honestly, neither did I.
We reached the house. I thought maybe he would question me, ask me why did I let things go this far. He didn't stop me. Didn't even try. Maybe he knew he was as guilty as I was. Heavy with everything that unfolded, we didn't speak a word. I muttered slowly about taking a bath, I was also not mentally prepared for him to question and I hoped he stayed silent. I couldn't face him. Not now. Not yet.
Inside the bathroom, I locked the door behind me. My fingers trembled as I undressed, remving the dress that still clung to the scent of sweat, heat, and something else—something lewd. Something filthy. The cool air hit my skin and I shivered, not from cold, but from memory.
I looked down at myself. My thighs still sticky. My pussy red and puffy. A dark patch soaked into my panties, undeniable proof of how much I had enjoyed what happened. I hated it. I hated how wet I had gotten. How aroused I still was.
I stepped into the tub and let the hot water rise around me, hoping it would scrub the guilt off my skin. But it didn't. It couldn't. It clung to me, thick and heavy, echoing in my mind like a whisper I couldn't silence.
Why didn't he stop me?
Why didn't I stop myself?
Was it a test? Had Ray known exactly what he was doing? He must have. He had looked right at my husband while grinding into me, daring him to react. And when he didn't—when he sat there frozen—it was like permission. Like a green light to go even further. And we had. God help me, we had.
That scared me more than anything.
Not the act itself. But how easily I might've let it happen. He let it happen.
And yet, I still loved my husband.
That's the part that made it worse. I loved him. I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to humiliate him. But some part of me had wanted him to feel it. To see it. To know what it looked like when another man touched me. Claimed me. Dominated me. Maybe I wanted to shake something awake inside him. Maybe I wanted him to fight for me. To be the man I could lean into, knowing he'd never let me go that far.
But he didn't.
And now, here we were. Two people with too many words and not enough courage to say any of them.
I sunk deeper into the water, hugging my knees to my chest. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. I didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
And maybe now, I was starting to fear for what's in store for us, for our future.