I stood just outside his door, my legs shaking, barely able to keep myself steady. I could feel drops of my orgasm still dripping down my thighs. My whole body was burning, heat pulising through every nerve. I could still feel his fingers inside my pussy, the way he fingered them fiercely while feeding filthy words in my ear, each one making my cunt throb even harder.
The pleasure—fuck. It was still rolling through me. And it was crazy.
The air felt cold against my flushed skin as I tried to steady my breath, to slow the wild thundering of my heart. If I hadn't pulled away… if I'd stayed just a moment longer… he would've been inside me right now, fucking me like an animal. Ruthless and unstoppable. That thick cock slamming into me again and again, each brutal thrust spreading me wide open, kissing my womb.
And how would I have reacted?
Would I have kept up the act—pretending to be innocent, hiding behind that sweet, naive mask even as he slammed inside me like I was his personal fucktoy, something filthy, made just to take his cock.
Or would I have broken completely—Or would I have shattered completely—moaning like a desperate whore, surrendering to it all, my voice cracking, tears of twisted pleasure spilling down my cheeks?
I don't know. I didn't want to know
Or maybe... I wanted to know.
But still… a part of me felt proud. Proud that I didn't let my lust win completely. That in the end, I chose not to betray my husband. Doesn't that mean something? Doesn't that prove I still love him?
Even though the line had been almost crossed. Even though my panties had been pulled aside, my wet pussy and asshole exposed to that filthy old man. Even though i felt the air on my exposed holes. Even though I let him finger me, grind on my pussy with his dick, so close… one thrust away from crossing the final line. I didn't let it happen. I stopped it. I pulled away.
So shouldn't I be proud?
Or… should I be ashamed? Ashamed that I even let it go that far. That I allowed him to lift my skirt slowly, deliberately, bunching it up around my waist as if I were already his. That I let him grab and squeeze my ass, fingers digging in, playing with it. That I said nothing when he pulled my panties aside. He saw it all. I let him see it all. And I didn't move. I stood there, staring ahead like a statue, pretending it wasn't happening, while deep down… I was enjoying every second of it.
If he had seen me in there… bent over in that tiny bathroom with that old man standing behind me, his hands all over me, my skirt lifted up…
Would he have even recognized me?
He can never even in his wildest dreams imagine me like that, let alone reality. That's the kind of trust he has on me. And thats the trust I am breaking day by day.
Honestly, shame on me.
It would have shattered him to pieces.
That I didn't scream. That I didn't stop it. That I wanted it.
Even after what I did to him last night…I was still shameless enough to go even further today.
It wasn't just a mistake anymore. Not some moment of weakness. I let it happen. I invited it.
I've betrayed him. Not in theory, not in passing thought—but in the raw, physical, undeniable way that no apology can fix. And it wasn't just that I didn't stop it.
It's that I enjoyed it.
Every filthy second. Every stolen touch. Every humiliating detail burned into my memory like a brand. I felt desirable, wicked and corrupted. I wanted to be seen like that. Treated like that. Handled and used. And deep down, a part of me is still throbbing from it.
How can I even look my husband in the eyes now?
How can I pretend to be the same woman he married when I know... I know that something inside me has already been stained?
Not by a cock. Not by force. But by my own choices.
My legs felt like jelly, barely holding me up. Every step was wobbly, unsteady, my knees threatening to give out beneath me. My thighs were still trembling, wet, and shamefully warm. I couldn't even walk straight. My chest rose and fell in shallow pants, my head spinning with the filthy chaos I had just let happen.
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold my body together, trying to look normal. But there was no hiding the raw ache between my legs, not the sticky dampness on my panties, not the scent clinging to my clothes. I could feel it. It was still on me. Still inside me.
And then my foot stumbled on something. My body lurched forward.
"Aah—!"
I braced for the fall, but hands caught me. Strong, steady hands.
"Whoa there. You need to be careful, miss," a familiar voice said, amused.
I froze.
I looked up, and my heart dropped straight to my stomach. Of all people, it had to be him. The Young Neighbor next door. His sharp eyes scanned me too quickly, too knowingly. He saw the dazed look in my eyes, the redness in my cheeks, the faint tremble in my legs. And worse, he stepped in a little closer, nostrils flaring subtly.
"You okay?" he asked again, but slower this time. "You look kinda... off."
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. What could I possibly say? That I'd been helping fix a pipe? That I slipped in some water? No excuse would cover the way my thighs were clenching or the mess leaking between them. I stood there, helpless.
And then came the smile. That same casual, cocky grin.
His voice dropped to a murmur. "Hmm… so you're not so innocent after all."
My heart slammed in my chest. My eyes widened.
He saw it. Not just the scent or the stumble, he saw me. He knew. Maybe not the details, but enough to strip me naked in his gaze. Enough to know I'd been onto something dirty, behind my husband's back. And I hadn't said no.
I'd fallen to his level. No, even below it.
I wasn't their sweet little neighbor anymore. I wasn't a devoted wife. I was just another woman they could look at like that. Another body to be whispered about behind closed doors. The kind of woman whose scent gave her away.
I didn't say a word. I just pulled away from him quietly, heart pounding, and kept walking toward the house, legs still shaky.
I stood outside the door and took a quick look at the window to check my reflection, to fix anything that might stand out. My hair, my clothes, my face. Anything that might betray what had just happened.
I entered the house, went straight to the bathroom, and cleaned myself up. The panties had to go.
This… this had become routine now.
Every time I came back from his house, my panties were soaked. Shamefully, undeniably wet. It was like some cruel new habit, coming home aroused, drenched, thighs sticky, carrying the scent of someone else on my skin.
I rinsed them, wiped myself thoroughly, and splashed cold water over my face. Trying to reset. Trying to calm the heat burning in my body. I kept my eyes on my reflection. My pupils were still dilated. My cheeks still flushed. No amount of scrubbing could wash off the guilt.
Or the memory of what he did to me.
When I stepped out, I found him sitting on the couch, watching a movie. He didn't even turn his head. Just kept watching with a calm, blank expression, his body still, like nothing had happened. It was… comforting. And heartbreaking. All at once.
I didn't say anything. I didn't want to interrupt him. I didn't want to draw attention to myself. So I quietly stepped into the kitchen and started preparing things. Moving as naturally as I could. Acting like everything was fine.
But I wish that was true. The distance between was growing loudly and sharply.
I focused on my tasks. Chopping, arranging, tidying. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to silence the thoughts screaming in my head.
Why did it feel even worse pretending everything was normal?
A few minutes later, I felt him approach behind me. The man I had promised myself to.
"Let's go out," he said suddenly, voice calm, casual, but… hopeful. Like he wanted to fix something he couldn't quite name.
I turned, smiled, and said, "Sure."
That one word felt like a lie.
Not because I didn't want to go, but because part of me wanted to pretend I was still worthy of him. That nothing had changed. That I was still the same woman he trusted with his heart.
We got ready quietly. I applied a little makeup. Not too much. Just enough to hide the redness in my cheeks and the guilt in my eyes. We left the house just as the sun began to dip, the light soft and forgiving.
And for a while… it felt nice.
We walked around the zoo, laughed at the animals, shared silly comments. It reminded me of what we used to be. What we could be. I clung to that feeling. I needed it. I needed something, anything—to remind me things can still go back to the way it was.
Dinner was simple but warm. He was trying. I could see it. And I hated myself for lying with every smile.
On the way back, just when I started to relax, we saw a truck down the block.
I spotted them almost instantly.
The man was massive—tall, broad, muscles pushing against his shirt. The woman beside him was gorgeous. Curvy, confident, and elegant in a way that turned heads without trying. And when she walked over to greet us, I instinctively stood a little straighter, trying to match her energy.
She was polite. And her husband… intimidating in a quiet, dominant way. I couldn't help but glance at them side by side. They looked powerful and secure.
We exchanged names and pleasantries. My husband even warned them lightly about the neighborhood's weirdness. He meant it innocently, but my heart skipped. Did he suspect something? Was he referring to what I was doing? No, of course not. He didn't know.
But it made me nervous.
We parted ways shortly after, walking back in silence. I could feel his hand lightly brush mine. And I quickly took a hold of it. I didn't want to hurt him anymore. I wanted to assure him that the woman he married was still there, even if little lost...but there.