14. Wife's POV [Part 1]

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 **** 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.