13. Wife's POV [Part 1]

The moment he fell asleep that night, after dinner and a movie that felt too normal to be real, I stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. His arms were around me, warm and familiar, but inside… inside I wasn’t the same. Not anymore. That afternoon had changed something. Or maybe the change had already started when we moved here. That accidental hug, the old man's rough fingers grazing my curves, his breath grazing my neck—it shouldn’t have happened, and yet it did. I told myself it meant nothing. I told myself it was just a slip. But my body... it had responded.

I could still feel the phantom weight of his touch on my skin, like a stain I couldn’t wash off. A part of me hated it. Another part... didn’t.

The next morning, everything looked calm on the surface. We laughed over breakfast, my husband cracked a lame joke, and I **** myself to laugh along. But guilt clawed at my stomach, twisting it every time I looked at his face. If he ever knew what happened yesterday… what I let happen… No. I shook that thought out of my head and stood up.

“It’s time I head to the old man’s house,” I said casually, like I wasn’t on the verge of falling apart inside.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded with a **** smile.

But as I walked down the lane, my heart was pounding harder with every step. I hated myself for feeling this way. Like I was walking into something I wanted, something I shouldn’t.

When I reached, the door opened before I could knock—like he’d been waiting. That same slow, creepy smile on his face. As if yesterday’s intimacy never happened, or maybe he just didn’t think it was wrong. Maybe he thought this was all normal now.

I stepped inside. And that’s when I noticed the curtains. Drawn shut. Thick. Blocking every drop of sunlight.

My mouth went dry. It felt like he’d planned it. Was this some kind of setup?

He greeted me casually and waved me toward the cleaning supplies. I tried to act normal, like my body wasn’t already tense from head to toe. I started mopping the floor, moving around the room. But I could feel it. His gaze. Every time I bent forward, every time my skirt rode up slightly—his eyes were on me. He didn’t even try to hide it anymore or maybe he was always like this. Shameless.

When I was near the sink, he came up behind me, too close and pointed at the dishes like I didn’t already know what to do. His hand brushed against my hip. Not rough. Just soft enough to feel deliberate. I didn’t even react. I was used to it now. That was the worst part. This kind of touch, this kind of invasion... had become familiar.

I wanted to scream at him, shove him back, leave this house and never come back.

But I didn’t. My legs didn’t move.

And then, just as I was finishing the utensils, I heard him groan loudly from the couch.

I turned sharply. “What happened?”

He winced, rubbing his thigh. “Cramps... my knee again. The pain is worse today.”

Before I could offer help, he looked at me with those tired, needy eyes and said, “Could you help me to the bedroom? I can’t walk properly.”

I hesitated. But then, silently, I stepped forward and wrapped his arm over my shoulder. His body leaned into mine, heavier than I remembered, his breath hitting my cheek again. That same scent from yesterday—dirty and masculine, clinging to my skin even before we reached the bed.

I lowered him down, trying not to make eye contact. “Anything else you need?” I asked, already wanting to get out of there.

He pointed to the shelf by the bed. “There’s a bottle of oil. Massage it into my legs, please. Just a little. It helps with the pain.”

I stood there for a moment, frozen. I knew what this could lead to. But I also knew what I’d already let happen.

And worse… part of me was curious. I hated that part.

I grabbed the oil, knelt beside the bed, and began with his foot. Slow, controlled motions. Trying to make it quick and professional.

But then he started making noises. Soft groans of pleasure.

“Mmm… your hands… they’re so soft. Must be heaven for your husband.”

I pretended not to hear it. Pretended my heart wasn’t racing.

As I moved to his calf, he let out a deeper groan. “Such a gentle touch... you’re like magic.”

His words weren’t just compliments anymore. They were suggestions. Teasing and dirty.

I swallowed hard and moved higher, brushing over his knee. That’s when I saw it.

A twitch under his loose shorts. A bulge, pressing out, stiff and rising.

I froze. My hand hovered near his thigh.

Had I caused that?

I wanted to stop. I should have stopped. But I didn’t.

He looked down at me, completely unashamed. “Just a little more... here,” he said, gesturing to his upper thigh. “It’s the worst part.”

I nodded slowly, unable to speak.

My fingers pressed into the muscle, moving in slow, rhythmic circles. His skin was warm. His breathing grew heavier.

Every stroke I made, the fabric of his shorts twitched again, the tip of his cock barely restrained underneath.

I told myself I was just helping. Just finishing what I started.

But my heart was pounding, and between my legs—I could feel it. That heat. That ache.

I hated myself. But I kept going.