18. Wife's POV

I was breathless.

This thrill… this filthy, dangerous thrill was unlike anything I had ever experienced. My thighs were still trembling where he'd pressed himself against me seconds ago. I remained by the kitchen counter, not moving, still loosely gripping for balance—the same spot where I'd just been bent over, where the old man's cock had been grinding hard against my ass through his pants, his breath hot on my back. My body was still buzzing from it.

He said nothing after. Just sat down on the couch like it was routine. Like he knew this was enough for today's game. No smugness, no words. Just that silent posture, that slight nod as he settled into the cushions, like a man satisfied after marking something that now belonged to him.

I glanced once, and that was enough to understand—he was done. For now.

I quickly stepped out of the house. My legs weren't steady. My lungs still felt tight, but I forced myself to walk like nothing happened. Just a quiet wife heading home.

I hoped and prayed that he wasn't downstairs. If he was in the hallway… if he caught me walking in like this—panting, cheeks flushed, the unbearable stench of the old man still stuck to my clothes, to my skin—he'd know. He'd smell it. That thick, sour musk, the faint dampness between my thighs, the leftover guilt. It was still all over me.

And if he suspected something... if he looked me in the eyes right now...

It could be the end.

I swallowed hard.

No. I didn't want this to end. I didn't want to give up this... whatever this was. This fun. This thrill. This slow, dangerous spiral I was pretending not to enjoy.

I quietly slipped into the house. The hallway was empty.

Thank god.

I stood still for a moment, listening. No footsteps, no creak of the stairs. Just silence upstairs.

That meant he was still in the workroom. Still sitting at his desk, headphones on, eyes buried in that glowing screen.

Clueless.

Not because he was stupid—because he wasn't here when it mattered.

It was his fault.

If only he had come downstairs. If only he had just been here when I walked in. He could have smelled it on me. Could've caught that scent—the stink of another man's lust all over his wife. One word from him, one suspicious glance… and maybe it would've stopped. Maybe I would've come to my senses.

But he wasn't here.

So now he lost the chance to stop me.

And I wasn't going to take the blame for that.

I made my way to the bathroom. Closed the door.

The panties were ruined. Damp and sticky. I didn't want to even look at them. I tossed them into the laundry basket, turned the tap on, and bathed again.

After the bath, I changed into fresh clothes—modest, soft, familiar. I even pulled my hair back like I used to.

I brought him food without a word. Left the tray near his desk while he typed away. He gave me a small smile, thanked me softly.

He didn't even look at me properly.

And that was what made it worse.

Even now, even today, after everything—he didn't notice a thing.

Even when I stood right there, freshly washed but still hiding a body that had been used moments ago. He didn't sense anything.

And I hated that.

Later, when the sun dipped low, he came downstairs and told me it was time to leave for dinner at Ray's place.

I nodded. Smiled like I was excited.

Then I walked back upstairs and stood before the wardrobe. I paused. Just stared at the dresses hanging neatly before me. Most were safe. Some even frumpy. But I reached for a snug one. Not revealing, not trashy. Just tight. A simple black number that clung softly to my curves. One I hadn't worn in a while.

I held it up.

It looked harmless and elegant.

But I knew how it fit.

I slipped into it anyway.

Told myself it was just a dress.

But deep down, maybe I wanted to see how many stares it would pull.

We stepped outside not long after. The air was cooling, but my body still felt warm from earlier. I walked beside him quietly, arms folded, pretending to enjoy the weather.

But I could feel them.

The eyes.

From the corners. From the shadows.

It started slow. A head turning here. A glance there. Then came the full-on stares. Hungry. Brazen. Their eyes locked on my ass, some trailing upward across my back, others dropping shamelessly to my chest.

One of them—one of the same greasy men from the neighborhood I'd caught peeking once before—actually raised his eyebrows and made a gesture with his tongue. A slow, wet drag across his lip, followed by a cock-sucking motion with his hand.

Another one smirked and tilted his head toward a narrow alley, like he was silently inviting me.

Did they think I was some cheap whore?

Did I look like that now?

Maybe I did.

But I didn't flinch. I didn't look at them. I just kept walking, pretending none of it reached me. Pretending I didn't feel their gaze burning into my skin.

My husband walked beside me. He didn't notice. Or maybe he didn't want to.

We turned the corner, and Ray's house came into view.

Ray's house was… huge.

As we stepped inside, both of us fell quiet. My husband looked around, clearly impressed, and I, though still trying to shake off the earlier tension from the walk—couldn't help but feel a small sense of awe too. The ceilings stretched high above us, the lighting was soft but expensive, and the layout had a strange, elegant symmetry to it.

Ray came down from the upper floor, smiling like it was the most casual thing in the world. He greeted us warmly, and before long he and my husband were already chatting like old friends.

But my eyes couldn't stop drifting.

The house… it was designed. Not just lived in. Every wall had an artistic texture, every room seemed to flow into the next with hidden passages and deliberate curves. There were alcoves filled with antique sculptures, velvet-lined furniture in corners no one used. Every detail whispered of something intimate and private.

Ray offered to give us a quick tour before dinner. Just to show off a little, he said with a smirk.

We followed him down one of the wide corridors. Eventually, he led us into a room lined with old portraits. Dozens of them. All shapes and sizes. The lighting in the room was dim, but warm—like a museum, carefully arranged to draw your attention.

I felt… mesmerized.

The faces on the canvas were striking. Painted with incredible detail. Some were of women, some of men, some couples. But they all had one thing in common: every expression held something just beneath the surface. A secret hunger.

As I moved deeper into the room, taking it all in, I heard Ray speaking behind me—mentioning something about three holes. I turned just in time to see him gesture toward three separate entrances placed against different walls, each behind a painting.

"Part of the original design," Ray said casually. "Go ahead, take a look around. I'll show you something fun."

I was too caught up in one of the paintings to notice them walking away. Just a whisper of footsteps and then nothing.

I blinked, turned around—and the room was empty. Noone.

Just me.

My breath caught in my throat.

Where the hell did they go?

I glanced at the three holes again, each identical. No labels. No markings. My mind raced. They must've gone into one of these. But which one?

I hesitated. For a moment, I considered waiting. But something pulled at me. An odd curiosity. That same thrill that had been pulsing just beneath my skin all evening. I told myself I had no choice. That I just didn't want to get lost.

So I picked the left one. Crawled inside.

The air inside felt different.

I stepped in.

The hallway curved inward, darker the deeper it went. Each step I took seemed to echo, muffled strangely. The walls were painted a dark burgundy and lit only by dim recessed lights. The deeper I went, the more something strange stirred inside me—like a crawling tension in my stomach.

A sensation I couldn't name. Not fear. Not exactly.

Something darker.

Finally, I reached the room.

It was dimly lit in red. No windows. Just a quiet hum coming from somewhere above. Velvet curtains lined the corners, and in the center stood a massive, floor-length mirror.

Nothing else.

I walked toward it, confused. The floor was soft beneath my heels. I looked around, unsure if this was some gallery or guest room—or some kind of… exhibit.

Then I faced the mirror.

It showed me. Just me.

Same black dress. Same pinned-back hair. I looked tired. Maybe a little flushed.

But as I stared, something began to feel off.

My face didn't move. It just… held still. Eyes locked onto mine.

Something about it felt wrong. Like I was being watched from the other side.

I tried to blink, but my reflection didn't.

It just stared.

And then—it changed.

The shift was subtle at first. My hair became messier. My face flushed deeper, mouth slightly opened. Then the clothes began to… disappear.

The black dress melted away into sheer, nearly invisible lingerie.

A see-through bra. Tiny, transparent panties.

I gasped. Instinctively took a step back. But I couldn't look away.

The mirror shifted again—and suddenly, they appeared.

Men.

Countless, faceless, towering silhouettes, surrounding the other me. All of them hard. All of them naked. Their cocks bobbed as they closed in on me—on her—and I… I looked excited.

No... Insane.

Grinning, lips open, eyes wild with desire. My reflection moaned silently as she dropped to her knees and began kissing one dick after another. Letting them slap her cheeks, spank her ass. Two of them grabbed her neck, bent her forward. A third shoved himself inside her mouth.

Another was already sliding into her from behind.

I froze.

My heart slammed in my chest. My hands felt cold.

It was me.

It was me. The face was mine. The body, the voice, the movements.

But it couldn't be.

That wasn't real.

That wasn't me.

I would never—

The image blurred, twisted—a cock sliding between my tits, another one pushing against my lips, another stretching me open from behind. I was moaning like a whore. Smiling, begging, writhing in their hands. Cum streaking across my belly. My legs trembling.

My body… loving it.

No. No, this was sick. This wasn't me.

This was some twisted illusion. Some trick. Or maybe—

Maybe my mind was playing a sick joke.

I tore my eyes away, stumbling back a step.

That couldn't be me. That version of me… it was too far gone. Too filthy. Too willing.

And yet, deep in my chest, behind the shame, something pulsed.

Arousal.

I stood there, breathless, staring at the mirror again—now just showing my normal reflection, calm, innocent.

Like none of it ever happened.

I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned, and there he was... Ray. Coming from the dim hallway like he'd known exactly where I was all along. His face was calm, casual… but that smile—

It was weird.

As if he knew something.

As if he saw something.

I quickly looked away, pretending I hadn't been shaken, pretending I hadn't just witnessed something I still couldn't explain. My heart was still racing, the image from the mirror refusing to leave me. That version of me—on her knees, surrounded, filled—haunted the edges of my vision.

Ray didn't say anything at first. Just looked at me.

Then, finally, in that low, smooth voice:

"Seems like you lost us."

I managed a nervous chuckle, trying to play it off.

"Yeah, I guess I got a little distracted…"

He stepped closer, not breaking eye contact. "We thought you might've wandered into the other room. Your husband's been a little worried."

That made my stomach twist. I swallowed hard.

Worried? That meant he noticed I was gone. How long had I been standing in front of that mirror? Lost in that—vision?

Ray tilted his head slightly and gestured to the side. "This way. Shortcut."

I followed.

He led me to a hidden panel tucked just beside a curtain. A quiet push, and the wall clicked open, revealing a narrow, concealed hallway that cut straight across the house. No signs, no noise—just another secret in a house that seemed to be full of them.

We walked in silence.

I could feel his eyes on me now and then, but he didn't say a word. Just kept that little smirk on his lips.

Within moments, we reached the original hallway. The noise returned—light laughter, muffled voices, the scent of food drifting from the dining area. I adjusted my dress, checked my expression in the reflection of a glass cabinet. I had to look normal. Composed.

Ray opened the door and stepped aside, letting me go first.

He moved toward me the moment I stepped in. His face was tense, eyes scanning me with concern.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice gentle.

I forced a soft smile, steadying my breath. I didn't want him to see anything unusual. Nothing of what just happened.

"Yeah, don't worry," I said as calmly as I could. "I was just looking at the paintings and didn't notice you guys were gone. So I just guessed and went into one of the passages."

We moved into the dining area, and the mood instantly changed. The space was warm and glowing, the lights casting a cozy softness over everything. The table was set so neatly it almost caught me off guard—Ray had a surprising sense of presentation, down to the folded napkins and elegant wine glasses.

The smell of grilled spices hung in the air, mouthwatering and rich. I sat down, forcing myself to smile as my husband pulled out my chair. The food… it wasn't just good—it was amazing. Every bite was perfectly cooked, seasoned just right. I let myself enjoy it, sip the wine slowly, nod along to the conversation as if I were truly present.

Ray was charming in a way that made it dangerous. He had that odd charisma, telling strange little stories, making my husband laugh. I joined in too—smiled, even giggled once or twice, catching myself slipping into ease.

For a little while, everything felt normal again. Like we were just neighbors, friends, sitting down for a pleasant meal.

Like I hadn't just seen that thing in the mirror. Like my body didn't still feel… awake from it.

But underneath the warmth of the wine and laughter, I could feel a faint stirring in my gut. A tension. Like I was waiting for something I couldn't name.

After dinner, the music started. Something playful, old-school. My husband awkwardly accepted Ray's offer to dance, but I could already see it—his stiff shoulders, unsure steps. He was sweet but hopeless. I tried not to laugh.

Ray chuckled, watching him fumble. "No offense," he said, flashing that easy grin, "but you really suck at this."

My husband scratched his head, chuckling too. "Yeah… never been a dancer."

Ray's eyes slid toward me as he spoke again. "You're ruining her moves. Sit. Let me show you how it's done."

I froze for just a second. I looked at my husband, waiting, giving him a chance to say no. To keep my hand, pull me back to him.

But he didn't.

He just gave a small nod and stepped aside.

That was it. No resistance.

I smiled, polite, small. Then I turned to Ray.

The music started just as Ray stepped in close, so close his chest nearly touched mine. He reached down without hesitation, took my hand like it was already his, and placed his other hand straight onto my ass—no teasing, no pretending it was something else. Full grab. His fingers sank in deep, spreading slightly, taking possession of it in a single move. I stiffened at first, but then… something inside me loosened. My husband was right there, just a few feet away. Watching. And he didn't say anything.

Ray moved even closer.

Then I felt it—his thigh sliding between mine.

He stepped into my stance, spreading my legs just a little. I didn't stop him. I let him part me, gently, like he was opening me up right in front of my husband. My breath hitched. My nipples hardened under the fabric of my dress, and something warm bloomed low in my belly.

Then we moved.

No. He moved. I just followed.

It wasn't a dance. Not a normal one. It was slow, heavy grinding. Dirty. Our hips rolled together like we were in a bedroom, not a living room. His bulge rubbed directly against me—over my pussy through my dress—again and again. He cupped my ass tighter each time, pulling me harder into his cock, as if he wanted me to feel just how hard he was. And I did. God, I did. I felt everything.

And I didn't stop it.

I could feel my panties sticking to me. Wet. Soaked already. My body was reacting, betraying me. Like it didn't care my husband was sitting right there watching the whole thing, doing nothing. Not standing up. Not saying a single word. Just watching his wife being touched like that.

Ray moved with such control. I barely had to think—my body just followed. I didn't plan it. I didn't know how it looked. I didn't know if it had crossed the line yet. All I knew was that I was breathing harder, getting wetter, and letting it happen. Letting him take over.

And then he spun me.

Quick and rough, like he was already used to moving my body however he wanted. Suddenly his cock was grinding into my ass. I felt him pressing in—hard—like he knew I was dripping for it. His hands gripped my waist and pulled me hard against him. He didn't just dance with me. He dry-humped me. Slow, heavy thrusts that made my breath catch in my throat.

My husband was still watching.

Still not saying a word.

That thought burned into me.

I'm his wife. His. And he was just sitting there while another man grabbed my ass, humped me like a toy, held me like I wasn't even married. And worse... I was letting it happen. Not just letting—I was moving back. Matching Ray's hips. Throwing my ass back into his cock like I wanted him deeper.

A small moan slipped from my lips when his hands gripped tighter—one hand sliding lower, between my cheeks, pressing right against my pussy. Right over my soaked panties. His fingers pushed into the fabric, right between my lips. He didn't even try to hide it. I froze. Shuddered. A flash of guilt and heat raced through me, and I still didn't stop him.

He was doing this in front of my husband.

And my husband just sat there. Pathetically watching his wife get used.

Was he enjoying it? Was he frozen? Scared?

What kind of man watches his wife get dominated by someone else in his own house, and says nothing?

Ray's hands slid back down my body like they owned me. I barely had time to catch my breath when he grabbed my waist, turned me again, and bent me forward.

Bent me.

His palm pressed on my back, forcing me down until my knees trembled and my hands dropped to the carpet for balance. My hair fell over my face, wild and messy. I could feel the heat of his crotch lining up behind me, his thick bulge grinding right into my ass like he was about to fuck me. And I just stayed there—hands on the carpet, ass in the air—like I was ready for it.

My fingers curled against the mat.

I didn't even fight it.

I didn't stop him.

I didn't even look at my husband.

Because I knew what he'd see. His wife, bent over in front of another man. Getting dry-humped like a slut while he sat there doing nothing. I didn't want to face him. I didn't want to see what kind of man he was—the kind who lets this happen.

Ray's hips rolled forward, grinding into my ass with steady pressure. He didn't even hide it anymore. It wasn't a dance. It wasn't even a performance. He was using me. Rubbing his cock between my cheeks, pulling me back into him with both hands like I belonged to him.

And fuck me, I was soaked.

I felt disgusting. Wrong. So fucking wet I could feel it soaking my panties, dripping against the heat of my thighs.

And still, I didn't stop him.

He kept me bent. One hand on my hip. The other pressing on the middle of my back, keeping me down, like he wanted my husband to see me like this—humiliated, folded in half, shaking on all fours. My face was half-hidden in my hair, but I could still see through it, just enough to know my husband was watching.

Still fucking watching.

Not standing up. Not yelling. Not saying a word.

Just watching his wife get rubbed and used like a plaything in front of him.

I felt a rush of heat in my cheeks. My mouth opened, breath catching as Ray pushed in harder. His cock—his fucking cock—was grinding up and down the split of my ass like he was dry-fucking me through my panties. He bent lower, chest over my back, and I felt his breath in my ear.

"You're doing perfect," he whispered.

God help me—I clenched.

My hands squeezed the mat tighter, and my hips pushed back without thinking. I moved with him. Matched his rhythm. My ass bouncing with every thrust. I could feel the fabric of my panties riding up, wedging deep between my cheeks. The slick mess inside them. My legs trembling from how badly I wanted more.

And my husband was still sitting there.

Still saying nothing.

What kind of man just… watches this? Watches his wife get bent over by another man, dominated, humped, groped like this—and doesn't even get off the couch?

He's pathetic.

That word hit me like a slap. Pathetic. Useless.

And somehow, that made my pussy pulse even harder.

I didn't want to think that. I didn't want to like this. But something inside me was opening up. Falling. Breaking. Letting go.

I was being bent, used, shown off—and my husband just sat there and watched me.

Watched Ray rub his cock on me.

Watched his wife grip the mat with her fingers curled tight, her dress riding up, her ass on display, like she wanted to be fucked.

And the truth?

In that moment... I did.

Ray stepped around me, cutting me off from view. I knew what he was doing. He didn't want my husband to see anymore. He wanted me for himself. And I let him block me. I let him take over.

My hips were moving harder now. My ass bounced with every grind. I was fucking back. Giving him everything, like I didn't even care who was in the room. My body had chosen for me, and my brain couldn't catch up.

Then he grabbed my hair.

A handful. Firm. Tugged it back until my head tilted.

My mouth opened on its own. A soft moan escaped.

God, I was soaked.

And I didn't want him to stop.

He spun me again, caught me in his arms, and I went limp—just breathing, panting, letting him move me wherever he wanted. My dress clung to my skin. My body felt like it was melting.

His hands slid up my thighs, underneath, finding bare skin.

Then he lifted me.

Just like that.

My feet left the ground, my legs dangled. My dress slid up completely, exposing my ass—bare, right there in front of my husband. I didn't even try to pull it down. Ray's hands grabbed each cheek. He squeezed, spread them a little. Just enough. I could feel my pussy open, my hole flash into the room.

And still… my husband did nothing.

I didn't look at him.

I didn't want to look at him.

Because I knew I'd see shame on his face. Or worse—excitement.

He was watching his precious wife get manhandled, humped, grabbed and shown off like some cheap trophy, and he hadn't done a damn thing to stop it. He just sat there. Weak. Useless.

And I...

I let it happen.

No. I wanted it.

That thought scared me.

But it was true.

Ray slowly lowered me, face still close to mine, his forehead nearly touching. His eyes locked on me. I was breathing hard, lips parted. My body still pulsing from everything he just did. My heart thumped like I'd just been fucked.

And maybe... in some way, I had been.