"H-Hey?"
The voice pulled me back—back from whatever dark, blurry place my mind had wandered into. I blinked slowly.
Lina was crouched beside me, eyes filled with concern, her hand resting gently on my arm. "You don't look okay at all. Maybe… you should just go home and rest today?"
I stared at her face, trying to piece together what she was saying. Her lips moved, but my brain was still swimming in that heavy, dizzy aftershock. My pulse hadn't slowed down yet. The phantom buzz of that damned thing was still there, still echoing inside me.
And then his voice came from behind her.
"Yeah. She looks… like a mess."
I flinched. My lips parted. Did he just—?
Before I could respond, he was already moving closer. "I'll drop her off. She shouldn't go alone like this."
He sounded like a gentleman. Worried for a woman in distress and lending her a hand without a second thought.
Like this was just something he did often—escorting women he had wrecked from the inside.
He stepped in beside me, placed his hand under my arm. Slowly, he began lifting me to stand.
Lina helped too, her hand on my other side.
I felt weightless.
Not in a good way.
Not in control either.
Just… floating, letting them move my body however they wanted.
Home. Rest. Something about that made my legs move, made me stumble forward with their support.
Each step I took, I felt those soft, warm waves rolling through me. That thing which was now silent after making me cry helplessly. The soaked mess between my legs. The way my body trembled like I had been used and emptied out.
He reached for my hand, gripping it gently but firmly, guiding me like a puppet. Like I belonged to him now. Like he was the only one who could move me.
His fingers stayed tightly locked around mine as we walked the quiet street. My steps felt shaky, each one pressing the toy deeper. The way he held my hand—it wasn't romantic. It was control. Like dragging his filthy pet home. And I… let him.
God. What was I becoming?
I should've pulled away. I should've fought this. But my body just kept moving, like it had already given up. Or maybe given in. Each step closer to the house made it worse, made the shame stronger, the heat in my stomach tighter. The fact that anyone could've seen us. Neighbors. My husband, if he just looked out the window.
He leaned in near my ear, his voice low like we were just chatting.
"You're walking like a good girl today. Can't even imagine how wet you must be."
Shame flushed my body.
"S-Stop it," I replied instantly.
"Tell me, does it feel worse now that your hand is in mine? Like I own you, taking you back to your own house while your husband's busy somewhere?"
The mention of my husband sent a strange shiver down my spine. My steps faltered, breath picking up all over again. I stared blankly ahead, chest rising and falling faster by the second.
He noticed.
Of course, he did.
"Oh? That's what gets you going?" he said, voice dipped in amusement. "Just a single word. Husband. That's all it takes to make you tremble like that?"
I clenched my jaw. "Shut up," I hissed, the heat of shame crawling up my face. I tried to sound annoyed, angry—even disgusted. But he only laughed. That deep, mocking chuckle that made everything worse.
"Noted," he said smugly.
Before I could say anything more, he pulled my hand again, pulling me along. He didn't give me a second to breathe. I stumbled after him, thighs tense, lips sealed, too ashamed to speak.
Because he was right.
And I hated that he knew.
I bit my lip, humiliated. And yet… . My face felt hot. I hated this. Loved this. Wanted to scream and melt into the ground at the same time.
I opened the door and we stepped inside, I tried to gain some sort of control. A shred of dignity.
"O-okay," I mumbled, not even looking at him. "T-that's enough. I need to—"
My wrist was snatched back.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" His voice didn't rise. It became dangerous. I turned, startled, and that smirk on his face made my body pound like crazy.
He closed the door behind him, locking it without breaking eye contact. The click of the lock echoed like a final decision.
"Don't think we're done yet," he whispered, reaching toward my waist. "You've been aching for it this whole time."
"W-wait," I stammered, voice barely more than a whisper. "He's just… upstairs…"
His lips curled into a slow, wicked smile, eyes locked on mine.
"Oh?" he murmured, as if the idea only now thrilled him more. "That makes it even better."
He leaned in close, arms tightly wrapped around waist, pulling me closer, and his voice dropped to a low, mocking whisper. "Psssh… don't make a sound, or we'll get caught."
My heart punched against my ribs. I snapped my mouth shut, pressing my lips together as tightly as I could. I didn't trust myself to speak. To breathe. To do anything but stand there, trembling, legs weak, the danger of it all overwhelming every last bit of sense in my head.
He slowly slid his hand down and lifted up my skirt with a rough pull. I gasped, my hands scrambling to stop him but too slow, too weak. My trembling thighs exposed, the thin rope of the toy still peeking out. My lips opened to protest—but nothing came out. Not a word. My mouth was dry.
He crouched down slowly, eyes fixed on the mess between my legs, like it was some kind of prize he'd earned. The string still peeked out, slightly wet, a silent reminder of everything I'd let happen. I was standing in the same hallway where I used to greet my husband with a warm smile. Now I stood there trembling, skirt lifted, chest beating, flushed and breathless with another man's hands on me.
"You really walked all the way here with this inside you," he murmured, fingers brushing near the string but not quite pulling. "Damn… you're filthier than I thought."
I started taking shallow gasps as I stared down at him. I felt every word hit somewhere deep, and even though I wanted to protest—say anything—I couldn't. My head was spinning. And what scared me more was how much my body was reacting. This was my house. My home. And he was... just upstairs.
I shouldn't feel like this. Not here. Not now.
But the shame—that twisted thrill that I'd been dragged here, that he was talking to me like that only made it worse. My chest was tight. My heart was pounding so loud it was the only thing I could hear for a second.
And then he looked up at me, eyes glinting.
"Let's see how loud you can stay quiet," he whispered.
I bit my lip hard, still gripping the wall with one hand for balance. My knees had gone weak again, like they didn't belong to me anymore. My eyes focused on the stairs, breath going bonkers. Worried? Scared? Maybe... Aroused? The weight of his stare. The draft on my bare thighs. The sharp press of guilt mixing with a heat I couldn't deny.
I was aroused. That was the truth. Even as I tried to tell myself to stop, even as I tried to block out the fact that my husband was just upstairs, that this was the same floor where we laughed over tea... my body betrayed me.
The sensation wasn't just physical—it was emotional. It was about how wrong this was. And that made it worse. Or better. I couldn't tell anymore.
My toes curled against the floor, and I gave him a shaky glance, my lips barely moving. "Y-you can't…"
But even I didn't believe myself.
He didn't answer. He just watched my body react, let the silence settle thick between us like smoke. And all I could do was brace myself, helpless against everything I was feeling, hoping that somehow… I could stay quiet.
Even when everything inside me screamed otherwise.
His fingers started moving, teasing the soaked string between my legs, slowly pulling on it. I gasped, my body twitching as the toy dragged against everything inside me. He didn't pull it out completely. Just played with it—pulling, pausing, pushing it back in like he had all the time in the world.
"Your husband right upstairs," he said calmly. Wonder what he'd say if he walked down and saw this."
My legs trembled.
"He'd be crushed, wouldn't he? Poor guy. His perfect wife spread out, shaking under someone else's fingers." He pushed it in deeper with a single twist, fingers shoved in as inside as he could, and my whole body jerked.
My hand flew to my mouth, eyes wide, blinking up at the ceiling like I could somehow see my husband through the floor.
He kept going, slow, steady, fingers brushing over the wetness gathering at my thighs.
"Would he cry, you think?" he whispered again. "Or maybe he'd just freeze, right there on the stairs. Watching. Realizing his wife's cunt is trained to squeeze around another man's hand."
"Stop," I hissed, weakly. "Just shut up…"
But even I didn't believe it. My knees buckled, barely holding on. My pussy clenched again as he twisted the toy one more time, slow and deliberate. My back arched off the wall, and I bit down on my knuckle just to hold in the whimper.
"You're so damn wet," he muttered, smirking. "All because I mentioned him. What kind of wife are you, huh?"
His words stung. They shouldn't have felt good. But they did. They burned hot and low, all through me, shame and heat twisting into something ugly and addictive. I hated it. And I wanted more.
He leaned in, his breath warm on my cheek, "You want me to show him? You want me to hold you up against this door, right now, and make sure he sees what kind of woman he's living with?"
My head shook violently. But my cunt pushed into his hand without thinking.
He chuckled darkly.
"You're unbelievable. I bet your cunt's learning to throb at his name."
And he was right. Every time he said husband, my body reacted like it was wired to it. It was disgusting. It was terrifying. And god, it was making me ache.
He moved the toy just a little more—barely anything—but my breath caught hard. I was close. Too close.
And then… he stopped.
I looked up, wide-eyed, broken.
He pulled his hand away, pulling the vibrator out, took a step back, like nothing had happened. Just that same calm look on his face.
"Well then," he said casually, fixing his shirt. "You've got a mess to clean up."
I blinked, still panting, shaking.
He walked to the door, paused, and glanced back at me one last time.
"Try not to moan too loud when you finally cum, yeah? Wouldn't want to interrupt your husband's work."
And just like that… he was gone.
I stood there,
legs barely working, mouth open, chest heaving, looking at the door like a crackhead.
"Fuck…" the word echoed like a damn vibrator inside my head. "I was so close to cumming"