11. Wife's POV

NOTE: This fictional story features only adult characters (18+) and portrays consensual interactions throughout.

After handing him his lunch and giving him a quick peck on the cheek, I left him in the living room with his laptop open and that blank stare he always had when work swallowed him whole. I told myself I needed to focus on my own day, but the truth was, even after stepping into the hallway, I could still feel it—the heat burning in my belly. That lingering, shameful little flame I tried to convince myself didn’t exist. The same one I felt earlier when I bent over to wipe the floor in front of the old man and knew, without question, that he was watching me.

I should’ve straightened up right away. Should’ve turned, glared, done something. But I didn’t. I stayed there longer than I needed to, ass stuck out, tits hanging forward inside my shirt, the whole damn pose like some slutty display. And I knew it. I fucking knew it.

I kept telling myself it wasn’t intentional. That it was innocent. But it wasn’t. Somewhere deep down, I liked knowing his eyes were on me. That thrill… that tight flutter between my thighs. It made no sense, and I hated that I felt it. No, I refused to accept it. I wasn't some bored wife looking for attention. Tomorrow, I’d go again to clean, and I’d be careful. Focused. I wouldn’t let myself act like that again. I’d be normal.

The next morning came. When I told him I was heading back to the old man's place, he gave me that awkward little smile and told me to take care. I could see it in his eyes though. That worry. That hesitation. I didn’t want to add to it. So I smiled like I always do and stepped out.

But I felt it again. The little thump in my chest. That soft tingling spark just above my mound, like nerves or something more. I tried to shake it off. Just cleaning. Just chores. I told myself again and again.

The old man greeted me with a smile when I arrived. Too polite. Too calm. Like nothing happened yesterday. Good. That’s how it should be. I walked inside, trying to stay focused, trying not to breathe too deeply because that fucking stench still clung to everything. That old, musty, almost rotten smell that made my nose wrinkle and my stomach twist.

I kept myself busy. Mopping. Dishes. Keeping my ass low, my shirt tucked, refusing to give him a repeat show. He sat quietly on the couch most of the time, staring at some photo frame like it meant the world to him. I didn’t ask. Wasn’t my place. But I didn’t trust him. I knew he was the kind to sneak glances, to “accidentally” brush too close. He hadn’t yet. But I knew better.

Then he got up and disappeared into his bedroom. That felt… off. He usually just sat around and gave unnecessary comments. But now? Quiet and gone?

I wiped my hands dry and figured I’d tell him I was done and leave. But part of me… part of me said no. It told me to stay the fuck out of that bedroom. That nothing good would come from walking in there. But my feet moved anyway.

He was sitting on the bed. Head down. Shoulders slumped. I squinted, trying to see his face. Was he crying? Or just pretending?

I cleared my throat. “I think I’m done, I’ll head out now.”