My eyes were fixed on the door, my mouth muttering curses at him for leaving me hanging.
I stood there like a statue, panties fallen down around one ankle, skirt still pushed high, my skin burning from exposure and leftover heat. My breath getting heavy, and I suddenly noticed how loud the house felt. So still. So silent.
I turned my head.
Toward the stairs.
They looked… different now. Like a path I wasn't supposed to take. Like a tightrope dangling above a pit. But it was the only thing my mind could focus on. Everything went blurred except the stairs.
The stairs that led to him.
My heart slammed against my chest, harder and faster.
I should cover myself. I should go to the bathroom. I should clean up, pretend none of this happened.
But I didn't.
Instead, I started walking. Not towards the bathroom. Not at all. But towards the stairs.
My heel touched the first one, and something inside me flipped. My head spun. Every part of me screamed to turn around, but my body kept going. Up. Slow. Heavy steps. One after another.
The farther I climbed, the worse it got.
Each movement felt unreal, like my body was a pet being dragged by some sick, invisible hand—by the hair, no less—pulled forward step by step, and all I could do was follow. My legs didn't want to work, but they did. My toes curled against the floor. My fingers twitched at my sides. My bare thighs brushed with each slow movement, wetness rubbing between them, and I didn't stop to wipe it. They just hung by my sides, useless, like they'd given up pretending to be decent.
I did nothing to fix my clothes. It was still hiked up, exposing everything between my legs, shining and raw from how wet I still was. No toy inside me anymore. Just emptiness. But the phantom of it still pulsed inside me, the ghost of vibration, of being used, of being seen.
Halfway up the stairs, I paused.
I gripped the railing. Hard. My breath was shaky. Loud. My skin was prickling with fear. I was sweating like mad. A damp trickle slid from the base of my spine down between my asscheeks.
And that's when it started.
That voice.
That deeper part of me. The part that slowly started taking control over me.
You want him to see.
I flinched. But my body started moving.
You want your husband to come out and see you like this. Cunt open. Body twitching for dirty reasons.
No. That's not—
Then why are you climbing these stairs? Why haven't you pulled your skirt down? Why are your nipples still hard?
My hand brushed against my chest. They were. Tight under my top. Poking through. The sweat made my nipples completely visible.
What are you gonna say if he opens the door? 'Sorry honey, I let someone else play with my cunt for a while, I hope you don't mind'?
My knees buckled slightly.
Or maybe you want to show him. Maybe you want to let him see what he's failed to protect.
The sweat was rolling faster now. I couldn't think straight.
Maybe you want to look him in the eye and tell him what the old man and the damn young neighbor did to you, while he was working like a good husband. Tell him how you let the old man corner you in the bathroom, his hard cock rubbing over your cunt, almost got yourself fucked like an animal. And what you did to stop him? Nothing. You stayed silent, you let him do whatever he wanted. You enjoyed it. And the young neighbor... fuck. The way he held you, milked you like a pig, made your tits sore, body giving in even as your mind screamed to stop. Maybe you want to confess it all, every dirty moment. Not because you're sorry. No. Because you want him to see the mess you've become. Not his sweet wife anymore. But this.
"Stop," I whispered, but my voice felt small.
You're not going to stop. You're going to stand right in front of his door like the whore you're becoming. Not knock. Not call out. Just stand.
By the time I reached the top, I was panting. My legs weak. My hands slightly shaking with fear? Arousal? I don't know. I don't want to know.
And maybe… maybe you want him to open it. Maybe you want him to see how wet you still are. Maybe you want to... Break him.
My whole body shivered.
Break him? No....Nev-
The word died halfway in my throat. It felt like my own mind slammed a wall down, refusing to let the sentence complete.
I walked, bare thighs trembling, cunt still pulsing from the shameful teasing—until I stood just outside his workroom door.
The same one I'd passed a hundred times before. The same room he sat in, quietly typing, editing, working sometimes late into the night to keep our life running.
Now I was here… looking like some cheap bitch.
Nothing between me and that door but the air and my twisted, filthy thoughts.
I stood there.
Breathing.
My eyes on the handle. My feet completely still. Heart pounding like a drum.
What if he opens it?
My lip quivered.
What if he sees?
The thought were dangerously... Arousing. My cunt leaking like a broken dam.
Would he hug me and ask what happened? Or Would he just stand there, quiet, like he already knew about every single betrayal I've done so far, and finally look me in the eyes and show me the door?
Or maybe… he would... Like it? I bit my lip as that filthy thrill twisted deeper inside me.
I stared.
Unblinking.
A bead of sweat slid down between my breasts, catching on my top.
What will you say when he asks why?
I couldn't even imagine the words.
And yet… I didn't move.
I didn't back away.
I didn't try to knock. Didn't whisper his name. Just stood there, knees tight together, chest rising and falling, skin flushed from head to toe.
And I asked myself—why? Why the fuck was I doing this?
Why am I here like this?
Why am I not backing up?
Why am I not ashamed enough to go downstairs and pretend I'm still the wife he believes in?
Why the fuck do I feel like this? Why is this so... Exciting?
My eyes burned.
But the heat in my body just climbed higher.
The fear. The shame. The danger.
It didn't make me stop. It made me wetter. Hornier. More confused. More alive.
Like something inside me had snapped. Some barrier had broken.
Say it.
The voice came from deep inside me. Not loud. Not yelling. Just low and filthy, curling around my shame like smoke.
Say what you really want.
My chest got tighter. Stomach fluterring with thrilling nervous. My nails dug deep into my skirt.
I stared at the door… and I couldn't help it. The words came out before I even thought them.
"…You're… right there."
My voice cracked. I blinked, heart hammering.
My fingers slowly making its way to my wet pussy.
"You're working… like nothing's wrong. Like you… still believe in me."
I bit my lip, but I didn't stop. I slowly pushed one finger inside my folds.
"You… don't even know… how many times I've… let them."
I gulped, throat dry. My chest hurt at every word. Like knives. Like every syllable scraped something raw inside me. They were cruel. They were disturbing. They weren't things a wife should ever say, not even in her darkest moments.
But my mouth didn't stop.
Because I was like… breaking apart and burning alive at the same time.
My throat was tight, my face flushed, and my fingers kept moving, making the mess worse. But I couldn't stop. Not even when guilt pressed down like a weight on my ribs, not even when my voice cracked in shame.
Each word felt like betrayal. But each word also made my body twitch.
It was sick. It was twisted.
And somewhere in that aching, ruined mess inside my chest… I liked it.
The way it felt to say it out loud. The rawness of it. The filth. The heartbreak.
My legs trembled. My eyes stung.
But something in me still wanted to keep going.
To say worse things. To keep hurting myself with them.
Because that pain, that guilt… it was making everything sharper. Deeper.
Real.
My knees bent just slightly, back against the wall, skirt hiked, cunt glistening. My voice lowered to a whisper.
"That old man… I know, you told me to be careful around him…"
A pathetic laugh escaped me.
"I should've listened… You warned me…"
I rubbed slower, the slick sound making me bite down on my knuckle. My eyes didn't leave the door.
"But I let him… I let him touch me. Play with me. And I said nothing."
I choked on a breath.
"You're just… working. Like everything's fine."
The pain in my chest made it hard to breathe. But something in my gut twisted harder. My voice dropped, hoarse and low.
"Do you have… any idea… what your wife's been doing… when she says she's out?"
A short gasp left me as I shoved my fingers even deeper.
"I've been bent over so many times by that old man… dripping by the time I came home."
My legs twitched. The shame burned, but my fingers kept going. I couldn't stop.
"…And I still sit beside you… smile at you… kiss you…"
My voice faltered.
"And now I'm here… right outside the door… soaked… touching myself…"
"…And part of me wants you to open it."
A tear slid down my cheek.
"So you can see it."
I whimpered. My fingers were holding my folds part, spreading my pussy wide… and I just froze like that, exposing everything
"So you know… what I really am."
I shivered, eyes squeezing shut, cunt pulsing around nothing, wet and needy.
"…And maybe… maybe you'll hate me. Maybe you'll finally see me for what I've become."
My breath hitched again.
"…And maybe that's what I deserve."
A single thought pulsed inside me, while I stood with my cunt spread apart: Please… please don't open it. Please… please do.