46. Wife's POV

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





The old man led us into a dimly lit room. My eyes adjusted to the stale gloom; there was barely any furniture inside, only a small bed pressed into the corner, its sheets wrinkled and faintly yellowed, and a single chair near the wall. He walked straight toward a narrow shelf, his fingers brushing over the dusty wood before pulling out a thick, rusty album that looked far older than me. He then carefully set it down on the bed.

My husband leaned forward with a boyish curiosity, eager to see what secrets the old man had hidden away inside those brittle pages. He crouched down on his knees beside the bed, his hand wiping off the dust from the cover before he opened it.

I began to step closer, ready to sit beside him. But before I could lower myself, the old man’s hand closed around my wrist. His grip was rough, commanding, and without a single word he redirected me, pulling me to stand behind my husband instead.

I quietly obeyed, moving where he wanted me to, like I was nothing more than a piece of furniture to arrange. My body was shaking with humiliation, shame warming my face, but still I stood in the spot the old man chose, because deep inside, the thought of him controlling me like that made me wetter than I already was.

I lowered my trembling hand and set it lightly on my husband’s shoulder, the way I always did when I needed his presence to calm me.

To him, it was only a gentle touch, a wordless sign that I was right here beside him, looking over his shoulder at the album. But to me, it was also something more—a silent plea. Please, be my support… please, let me hold onto you… while I allow this old man to do whatever he wants to me.

He began carefully flipping the thick, dusty pages of the old album. The pictures were faded, black-and-white, lined with the past. I could hear the slight rasp of the brittle paper as his fingers turned them. All the while, I forced my eyes on the photographs, though my heartbeat was thundering for an entirely different reason.

Behind my husband and beside me, the old man shifted even closer. His presence loomed darkly next to me, until I felt his hand at the edge of my skirt. My breath stammered, shame gripping my throat, but I did not move.

I let him raise the fabric slowly, inch by inch, bunching it higher and higher until the cool air kissed my thighs and my bare ass was fully exposed. My husband, only inches in front of me, kept turning the pages, oblivious, his attention swallowed by the family history spread before him.

I bit my lip as the old man’s fingers slid under, finding the strip of panty glued inside my sticky cunt. He hooked it aside, baring the slickness I could no longer hide. I dug my nails lightly into my husband’s shoulder, masking the tremor as if steadying myself while looking at the photographs. In truth, it was because the old man’s fingers were already moving, slowly rubbing over my dripping cunt with an authority that made my shame burn and my arousal even hotter inside me.

I wanted to breathe an apology into my husband’s ear, to beg forgiveness for the filth I was allowing, but the words caught in my throat as my body betrayed me, grinding back against the old man’s finger.

After tickling my cunt for few good seconds. He finally forced his two fat old fingers inside me.

No. Not forced. Let me correct myself.

There was no resistance. No fight back. My pussy welcomed him with open arms, like it was already his, like it had been waiting for this all along.

Just a sloppy hole welcoming what it craved. I wanted to be a wife, a woman with self-respect — but all I felt was a useless loser, dripping and twitching around fingers that weren’t my husband’s.

He was gentle. He was fucking me carefully with his hand, driving his thick fingers in and out, stretching me until my face tilted helplessly upward, lips opened, eyes shimmering with tears of shame. I stood onto my toes, my thighs trembling, my legs spreading wider on their own as if begging for more.

I kept clutching at my husband’s shoulder again and again, desperate to keep myself steady as those fingers worked inside me, slow and relentless, dragging every wet sound out of me as he shoved them deep and pulled them back with obscene ease.

“Are you okay?” my husband murmured softly, glancing at me with that gentle concern.

I somehow pulled a smile onto my lips, my voice breaking with a light laugh as I pointed to the page. “I’m fine. Look at this one… isn’t it beautiful?” I lied so easily, and the lie itself sent a shock through me.

The thrill of fooling him—of smiling sweetly at my husband while the old man’s hand was buried in my pussy—was too much. My body clenched, and before I could stop it, a hot gush spilled out of my cunt. I squirted quietly around his fingers, my shame and arousal exploding together as my husband turned another page, none the wiser.

He slowly pulled his fingers back and spread the wetness across my leg, letting me feel every bit of what I had just spilled. The sight and sensation were unbearably degrading, and I wanted to run, wanted to escape far away from this shame. But I couldn't. The more humiliating it felt, the better I felt. Every pulse and shiver feeding the filthy pleasure that I couldn’t resist.

I clenched again on his shoulder, but not for support this time. My grip was a message, a silent plea for him to notice, to finally catch me for all the things I was doing behind his back. But he didn’t even turn, he just moved thr album closer toward me so I could have better view.

How cute.

My heart raced, a mix of frustration and lust burning inside me, my body reacting wildly to his ignorance while the old man’s fingers continued their deliberate teasing.

The old man leaned forward, his voice soft and low, eyes fixed on the album he held. “That was my wife… she had a way of keeping hold of me, especially in hard times. Never let go until I could breathe easy again.”

Every word the old man spoke to my husband felt like a rope tightening around my neck. My legs were giving out so I pressed closer, leaning into my husband as I silently thanked him for his support.

He kept me stretched open with his two fingers fir few good seconds. The delicious sting of degradation mixed with lust until I could barely think straight, every word he spoke making me leak harder, every kiss by air against my stretched hole was a reminder of how utterly I belonged to his dirty whims.

Each dirty remark he made, each laugh or story about his family, was a cruel tease, and my body couldn’t stop responding.

The old man continued destroying me with his fingers, each movement driving me closer to the edge. I could feel the orgasm building with every press, every subtle shift, and I leaned in more, unable to support my own weight. My eyes half-closed as I drowned in the sensation, every nerve screaming with shame and desire.

“You okay?” my husband asked again.

Pulling me back a little. “Mm… yeah. Just… a little sore from standing,” I whispered, forcing a soft smile at him as I looked down at the album. “Keep… going.”

Those words weren’t really for him, but for that dirty old man beside me.

He didn’t respond, just kept his fingers pressed right beneath my cunt.
F-Fuck. What is he trying to do now?

I couldn’t wait any longer. I pushed my ass down on his fingers, letting them slide in smoothly as he kept them firm. So that was what he wanted. I kept moving against him, fucking myself on his fingers, upwards and downwards while the wet heat between my legs built, every movement bringing me closer to the ultimate pleasure.