43. Wife's POV

My throat felt sore every time I swallowed. I did not dare to talk much, afraid he would notice the rasp in my voice. The ache was sharp and little bruised, yet every time it flared, I could not stop thinking about what had caused it. His cock. That thick, heavy length that had **** its way down my throat until my eyes watered and spit dripped down my chin.

I had never been that thirsty for my husband’s cock like I was for his. The memory hit me suddenly, making my knees weak, my body trembling with the ache I could not hide. The itch between my legs flared again, my pussy hot and wet, my throat still tingling as if it remembered every brutal thrust, every forceful push. His cock... I… God, I was getting wet again just thinking about it.

He had always been so careful, so tender, every touch careful, every kiss slow and passionate. I had never thought of sex as anything more than that, and it had been enough for me, for years. But this....this raw, merciless, brutal feeling from someone else—it was something else entirely. Why did being treated like that, being used so roughly by someone other than my husband, make my body heat up, make my fingers itch to touch myself?

I hesitated for a moment, but slowly gave in as the memory became too strong. My hand drifted down slowly, my fingers brushing against the wet heat forming between my legs. I imagined him again, forcing himself into me, my mouth stretched, gagging around the thick hardness I had swallowed, my lips and throat aching. I liked it. I liked it rough. I liked the humiliation, the way my body had **** but to respond.

Every push of my fingers made me remember more. The way he had held my head in his hands, the way he had grunted and shoved harder when I tried to pull back, the way my lips had clamped around him until I choked, and still I stayed, still I swallowed, still I moaned. The thought of it made me arch, my body trembling as I rubbed more firmly, imagining that same pressure, the same desperation, the same filthy, dirty domination I had begged for without knowing I was begging.

It was painful, but also strangely addictive.

I closed my eyes and let myself disappear into the memory. The contrast between the disgusting people here and my husband was unbearable in the most delicious way. My husband’s touches were safe, tender, the kind of love I should crave, but these other men had shown me something dangerous. Something I wanted, even if I hated myself for it. I was wet, needy, and **** for it all over again. My fingers moved with a mind of their own, teasing, stroking, imagining the brutal ****, imagining how badly I had wanted it, and how much I still did.

After spending so much time in the bathroom masturabting on those dirty thoughts. I finally pulled myself together, leaving my cunt all red and swollen.

As I went about the day, I caught myself staring at objects I normally would not think twice about. A cucumber on the counter, the handle of a rolling pin, even the neck of a bottle my husband set down after drinking. My eyes locked on them for too long, measuring in my head. Was it this thick? Was it this long? Did I really manage to take something so big into my mouth? The shame burned me, yet I could feel my cunt throb as the images replayed. It was humiliating, degrading. Yet the truth was It felt... good.

When I sat across from my husband later that evening, watching him eat, I didn't feel any guilt. Even after he looked at me with his usual gentle smile, speaking softly about his day, unaware of the filth in my head. Because there was no reason to feel guilty. I still loved him—he was kind, patient, and everything I had ever wanted in a partner. What I had done, what I had felt, it didn’t change that. Loving him didn’t mean I couldn’t crave something different, something rough and raw that I had never experienced before. I could want both. I could take pleasure from another man’s dominance and still treasure him, still feel warmth and loyalty for him, and that was enough to justify why my body could burn with desire and my mind could be filthy without guilt.

My mind compared his every movement to the one who had abused my throat just hours before. My husband’s kindness felt so far from that raw, brutal act. What was wrong with me that I craved the roughness more? That I wanted to feel owned like that again?

Every time I swallowed, the dull ache inside my throat made me shiver with secret arousal. It was a reminder of what I had allowed, of how I had knelt and opened myself for someone else. I thought about the difference too much. My husband had never made me feel stretched or overwhelmed like that, never **** my body to surrender in such a helpless way.

I realized, with a shiver that ran through me, that something had changed inside me. My desire had shifted, twisted, and there was no going back. Even as I kissed my husband, watched him smile, felt the warmth of his hands, part of me still ached for that other, rough, dominating touch. My body had learned something dangerous, something dark, and the memory of it clung to me like a secret I could never erase.

I let out a small, dirty laugh, my fingers brushing over my own thighs as I imagined him again. The thought made me wet, hungry, and ashamed all at once. But deep down, I knew it didn’t matter anymore. My body had remembered, my mind had remembered, and the line had been crossed.

The night went by in a blur, and soon it was morning. I was tuning in to my own thoughts as I moved around the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Sunday. He wouldn’t have work today, it made me feel a little tense. He wouldn’t be shut away in his workroom like usual, which meant I had to be careful, had to make sure everything seemed normal. My stomach twisted as I thought about leaving without raising even the slightest suspicion.

I glanced over my shoulder at him, sitting on the couch, absorbed in the TV as if the world had nothing to do with him. My chest tightened slightly, a mixture of nervousness and excitement churning inside me. Well, I am not lying. I was actually going to meet Lina. The words felt both innocent and dangerous in my head.

I plated the breakfast carefully, setting it on the table in front of him with a smile that was calm, ordinary, untouched by the thoughts crawling through my mind. He murmured a soft thanks, already focused back on the screen.

Once he began eating, I stepped out onto the balcony to hang a few clothes. The sun felt warm on my skin, but my thoughts were elsewhere, drifting uncontrollably. My eyes wandered toward the old man’s door, and I felt a tingle crawl up my body. I remembered the days when I used to come out of his house with my breath heavy, body trembling, the shame and thrill mixed together from all those dirty secret games. An old man… so much control over me.

The memory made my cheeks flush. And for a moment, I forgot where I was. Standing on the balcony, wet clothes on my hands that I came to hang, my eyes shut as I let myself drift into the recollection. Every touch, every teasing glance, every humiliating demand came rushing back, igniting a heat inside me that was almost unbearable. I felt my fingers twitch at the front of my skirt, the wetness threatening to spread, and I bit my lip, trying to hold myself together.

Then the sudden honk of a car snapped me back to reality.

S-Shit, I whispered quietly. I was about to… rub myself here, for anyone to see. I shook my head violently, telling myself to get a hold of it.

Just then, the old man’s door creaked open. He slowly stepped out. My body froze. I quickly turned my back towards him, pressing my hands to my thighs as my breath came in short, uneven gasps. Just a glance of him, just the sight of him, the weight of his presence—doubled the heat coursing through me. My heart raced, and I could feel my body betraying me, responding to every memory and every illicit desire I had buried so carefully.

I couldn’t stop myself from watching him through the balcony sliding glass door. My chest tightened, my heart pounding as I caught him looking toward me. Was he looking at my ass? Probably thinking about me. The thought made me blush, heat pooling between inside me, as an **** ache spread through me. I imagined him wanting to ram that dirty cock inside me right there, and the image made my breath hitch.

I noticed him moving closer, taking the usual route past my view. My body reacted without thought, heat spreading uncontrollably. Just as he was near, a wicked idea took hold. I bent slowly, ass subtly lifted toward him, pretending to grab a cloth from the bucket. My eyes stayed on him through the glass, watching his reaction carefully.

I saw him slow down, his gaze locked on my ass. The effect it had on me made my fingers twitch. I couldn’t resist. From the front, I sneaked a finger under my skirt, lifting it just enough so the back rode up too, my ass pressing out, my panty strip showing from below. Anyone standing below could have taken a clear look. My thighs ached with the burn of shame and excitement, my cunt pulsing as I stayed like that longer than necessary, soaking in the thrill.

After taking his sweet time watching my ass. He finally went ahead smiling back at me. The sight of him licking his lips made me suck my inner cheeks with little bit frustration. I hated how easily he could make me wet and shivering just with a glance, how his casual, shameless attention could make my body betray me when I was supposed to be in control.

F-Fuck. That horny old man, staring so shamelessly at a married woman and making those gestures,” I thought with a touch of sarcasm, a horny smile spreading across my face.