I woke up feeling heavy. My head was foggy, and my chest ached. It wasn't from sleep. It was guilt. My body had slept, but my mind hadn't. It kept replaying everything that happened last night. I didn't want to remember, but I couldn't forget either.
He was still asleep beside me. Like nothing was wrong. Like I hadn't let Ray do those things to me just a few hours ago. Or maybe this was the only time his face looked calm, no tension, no worries. Away from reality. Relaxed and peaceful.
I got up quietly and went to the kitchen. It was Sunday. He didn't have work today. I tried to act normal. I told myself if I just kept moving, if I kept pretending, then maybe he'd forget what he saw. Or maybe he didn't see anything. Maybe it was all in my head.
So I cooked.
I made his favorite breakfast. The one I only made on his birthday or when I wanted to cheer him up. Eggs the way he liked them. Toast with just the right amount of butter. Spiced potatoes. His smoothie. I put everything on the table like it was just another normal morning.
He came out a little while later. He smiled at me like usual.
"Good morning," he said.
I froze for a second. Then I forced a smile. "Good morning."
He went to the bathroom, washed up, then sat down at the table. I held my breath. I watched every little thing he did. He didn't look angry. He didn't look upset. He looked normal. Like he had no idea what happened last night. Like he hadn't seen anything.
He took a bite and looked at the table.
"What's up with all this? Is it my birthday or something?"
I almost laughed from relief. My hands were still shaking a little, but I smiled.
"Today's your free day, so I thought it should start with your favorite breakfast."
He nodded. Took another bite. For a moment, I felt okay. I thought maybe I got away with it. Maybe last night wouldn't come back to hurt either of us. Maybe things could go back to how they were.
But then I saw it.
He didn't say anything. He didn't ask questions. But something changed. His chewing slowed. His face went a little blank. He didn't look up. He just stared at the plate like his thoughts were somewhere else.
Like he remembered.
My stomach dropped. I looked away and stared at the table. I couldn't look at him anymore. I didn't want to see his eyes. I didn't want to see what he might be thinking.
He finished eating without saying another word. Then he stood up and went to the living room to watch TV.
I stayed at the table, trying to calm my breathing. I cleaned up slowly, just to stay busy. My hands moved, but my mind was stuck. I could feel the space between us getting bigger. I could feel it in the way he didn't look at me. In the way he didn't ask if something was wrong.
After a while, I went to him.
"I am heading out now," I said.
He nodded. That was it.
No smile. No small talk. Just a nod.
I stood there for a second. I wanted him to say something or anything. But he didn't.
So I left. I stepped outside and closed the door behind me.
The air felt cold even though the sun was out.
My heart felt heavier than usual. Guilt sat in my chest like a rock. I couldn't stop thinking about how hurt he looked. How quiet he was. The things I've done... they weren't small. I've changed. I didn't even notice how far I'd fallen, how much I might've broken him without realizing.
The excitement I usually felt when heading to the old man's house wasn't there. No dirty thrill. No secret arousal. Just a sick feeling in my stomach. I kept thinking about him, still trusting me, still smiling, still trying to act normal. And me? Even after he had warned me about his intentions before. I had been doing things with him behind his back. Shameless things. Things I let happen. Things I wanted. Things I enjoyed.
I knocked on the old man's door, but I couldn't even look at him. Not today. I just walked in and quietly started doing the chores like I was supposed to. My movements were stiff. I didn't bend the way I normally would. I didn't give him a peek or a hint. Every time he walked close to me, I stepped away. I kept space between us.
It was hard.
Because no matter how guilty I felt, my body still remembered everything. Every touch. Every time he made me gasp. Every time I begged without words. And deep inside, I still craved it. I still wanted to feel it again. I wanted to grind on him. I wanted him to pull me close, press against me, make me forget everything.
But I couldn't let it happen. Not today. Not after seeing my husband's eyes lose their light at breakfast. Not after seeing that moment where he suddenly went quiet.
So I tried. I really tried to keep my distance. But the old man noticed. His eyes followed me more than usual. His steps were slower, like he was testing me. He reached for things he didn't need, walked closer than he had to, and I felt it all. My skin burned from how close he got. My breath hitched even when I told myself to stop reacting.
And worst of all—my body didn't listen. Even when I pulled away, I still clenched deep inside. I still felt heat spreading between my legs. It was sick. Disgusting. I hated it. I hated how I ignored his little touches, but secretly wanted more. I hated how I acted cold, but inside, I was hoping he'd keep pushing. That he'd break through the wall I was trying to build. That he'd grab me, like before, and make me feel those twisted dirty pleasures again.
Because the guilt was real. But so was the craving.
He disappeared into the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. Said he was going to bathe. I let out a soft sigh, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe today, nothing would happen. Maybe I could just finish cleaning and leave before he came back out. A part of me felt relieved.
But there was another part of me that… didn't.
A part of me was disappointed. That he didn't push further. That he didn't try anything yet. Maybe if he had... maybe I would've given in again. Maybe I wanted him to.
I stayed quiet, wiped the table, forced myself to focus. But then, after just a few minutes, I heard the bathroom door open. My hands froze.
He came out with the towel still on. Still dry. He hadn't bathed. His skin wasn't wet, not a single drop. No steam in the air. No shampoo smell. Nothing. Just him standing there, like a man who'd walked in only to set up a scene.
Then he spoke.
"There's something wrong with the tap," he said casually, with a genuine face, pretending like it was just another chore. "Can you come take a look?"
My heart skipped. My chest tightened. My pussy throbbed.
No. This wasn't about the tap. I knew that. This was about us. About the thick, dirty sexual tension hanging between our bodies every time we were close. That wasn't going away. It was only getting stronger. And now, stepping into that small bathroom with him, with the door closed behind us, with only a towel covering his cock… it felt like walking into a trap. A trap I wanted to fall into.
I felt it deep in my pussy, the hotness, the way my pussy clenched just from his stare. My thoughts screamed.
He wasn't even trying to be subtle. He just wanted to get me in there. Alone and close. Just a towel between us. That disgusting old man wanted another chance to do things with me. To touch me. Rub up against me. Trap me in that tiny space and make me feel that way again.
My heart was pounding in my chest. I looked at him standing there, waiting for my answer.
"No. I can't. You filthy old man. I know what you're up to. You just want to get close again, don't you? You're disgusting. You just want to press your body against mine and feel me up. Sick bastard."
That's what I said.
But then… he smiled.
Not annoyed. Not caught off guard. No reaction to my curse at all. He just smiled wide, like I'd said exactly what he wanted to hear. And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he stepped aside. Opened the way toward the bathroom. His hand gently gestured.
"You first."
My legs trembled. I blinked, confused for a moment.
Wait.
Why… why did he look so pleased? Why did he act like I'd agreed?
And then it hit me.
I hadn't said any of that out loud.
All those filthy curses, all those angry words—I thought I'd said them, but my mouth had stayed shut.
What actually came out… was something else entirely.
"Sure."
That was the word I'd actually spoken.
I had agreed. I had already accepted. My voice had betrayed everything my thoughts were screaming. And that was why he was smiling. That was why he looked so damn smug. Because he heard the truth. Not the curses in my head, but the weak, obedient little sure that slipped past my lips.
I stepped forward.
My feet moved on their own. Past him. Into the bathroom.
It smelled like him. The room was still dry, clean, quiet. No sound of running water. Just silence. And heat. That heavy heat between my legs.
Just the two of us now. Just this small space. And that towel still clinging to his waist.
I didn't look back.
But inside, I was already bracing myself.
Because I knew—this was never about the tap.
His footsteps followed behind me, slow and steady. Then I heard it. The click of the lock turning. My breath caught. My throat tightened. He wasn't letting me leave.
I stood still, staring at the tiles ahead, pretending like this was normal. But it wasn't. I could feel the air shift behind me, his presence getting closer.