14. Wife's POV [Part 2]

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 **** 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.