Chapter 1 — My Wife's Affair

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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"Honey, there's a teacher who lives near me. Do you think it's okay if we carpool?"

"Carpool? Why suddenly?"

"Well, I'm not great at driving, and it'd save on gas. Plus, you take the bus every day—you wouldn't want me wasting fuel all by myself, would you?"

"He's offering you a ride?"

"Yeah."

"Is he a man?"

"Uh... yeah."

"How old is he?"

"Early forties. If you don't like it, I won't do it."

"No, it's fine. Saving gas is good. You decide."

I reluctantly agreed, though the sudden mention of carpooling—and with a male teacher—left a bitter taste. I didn't want to seem petty, so I swallowed my unease. What could possibly happen between two teachers? Besides, my wife came from a strict household. She was meticulous, reserved, the most proper woman I knew. There was no reason to worry. It was just jealousy—nothing more. But no one truly knows another's heart.

Then, one day, a sudden wave of rage and betrayal crashed over me, pushing me to the edge.

It had been about two weeks since the carpooling started. As usual, I boarded the bus after a long, exhausting day, heading home. Traffic began to crawl near my neighborhood. The bus sat frozen, but that was normal. I stared blankly out the window.

Then, a black SUV crept up beside me in the next lane. I glanced over idly—and froze.

Through the tinted window, I saw him. The teacher. I remembered his face from a couple of brief encounters.

Beyond him, a woman's legs were visible. The skirt—identical to the one my wife had worn that morning.

I couldn't see her face, but the color of her clothes, the shape of her legs—there was no doubt. It was her.

Seeing them side by side, I felt a surge of anger I couldn't suppress.

Damn it. Why am I like this? It's just a carpool.

I tried to calm myself, to tell myself I was overreacting. But once the suspicion took root, I couldn't shake it.

I stared harder through the window—and was struck like a punch to the back of the head.

His right hand, which had been on the steering wheel, slowly rose and settled on her thigh.

What shocked me more was my wife's reaction.

She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.

Instead, she gently placed her own hand over his, as if welcoming it.

I screamed inside, Push him off! But she didn't.

She caressed his hand, stroking it as if she'd known his touch for years.

It was unbearable.

The woman I trusted completely—how could she do this? I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it.

I stared at the man's face, hoping I was wrong. But no. It was definitely him—the man my wife had mentioned.

Rage boiled inside me. I wanted to leap off the bus and tear them apart. But the bus was packed. I couldn't move. And I couldn't bear the thought of confronting her in front of everyone.

I glared at his hand. It began to move.

At first, it stroked her thigh over the fabric. Then it slid lower—under her skirt.

She didn't stop him.

Instead, she lifted the hem of her skirt higher, exposing more skin. Then, shockingly, she spread her legs wider.

His hand disappeared beneath the fabric.

I couldn't see, but I knew—his fingers were touching her. Her pussy.

As his hand moved, she opened her legs even further.

I was consumed by fury—yet, deep inside, something else stirred.

I realized, with horror, that I was watching them not just as a betrayed husband, but as a voyeur.

Even as I burned with rage, I couldn't deny it: I was aroused.

My anger twisted into a strange, dark desire. I wanted her to be ruined. I wanted him to take her harder.

I turned my head. The man in front of me was also staring at their car. I glanced behind me—another man was watching through the window.

Suddenly, my wife wasn't just a cheating wife. She was a woman on display, receiving another man's touch in full view.

My rage turned into a twisted wish: Let her be used. Let her be broken.

I didn't want to admit it. But I did.

And in the reflection of the window, I saw my own face—flushed, eyes wide with uncontrollable excitement.

I saw her lift her hips, pulling her skirt up to her waist.

Her pantyhose and panties were visible now. And beneath them—his hand, groping her.

She spread her legs wider, silently inviting him.

His fingers slipped under the fabric.

She reached down and pulled her pantyhose aside, making room for him.

It was insane.

She was wet. I knew it.

I wanted to see her face—what expression she wore as another man touched her. My curiosity grew with every second.

His hand disappeared into her panties.

Then, suddenly, she lifted her hips and pulled both her pantyhose and panties down in one motion.

Her pussy—covered in dark curls—was fully exposed to him.

She kicked off the garments, pulled her skirt up, and spread her legs wide.

Now his hand roamed freely over her.

As he stroked her, she rocked her hips, moaning silently. It was obscene. Erotic.

Then her hand moved—down to his lap.

She reached for him.

They must have trusted the dark tinting too much. If they knew how visible they were, they'd never dare.

I saw her fingers move over his pants. My chest pounded.

I felt both rage and arousal—exploding at once.

It didn't make sense. I should have felt only anger. But I didn't.

Her hands on another man's cock—her touch meant for me—sent a jolt through me.

Then, she unzipped his pants and pulled him out.

His thick, dark cock sprang free, fully erect.

She grasped it and began to stroke—slowly, deliberately.

I remembered how she touched me. This was different. This was hunger.

Her strokes grew faster.

I imagined the sensation he must be feeling.

The thought that my wife was giving another man what she never gave me—what she should only give me—shattered me.

Yet I couldn't look away.

Other men were watching. My wife—on display. A slut in front of strangers.

It shamed me. But I was aroused.

The bus finally moved. Their car disappeared from view.

When I got home, she wasn't there.

I went back outside, searching the apartment complex for his car.

I found it easily—parked near the empty lot behind the building.

It was rocking.

Same model as before. No doubt.

I crept closer, crouching low.

Peering through the rear window, my heart dropped.

He was lying back in the driver’s seat. My wife was leaning over him, sucking his cock.

The woman who refused to do this for me—was doing it for him.

Unbearable jealousy surged.

But I didn't stop them.

I just watched.

Honestly? It was more exciting than my dull, emotionless sex life with her.

After a while, she lifted her head.

I ducked quickly.

The passenger window rolled down.

I held my breath.

Then I saw her head tilt out.

She spat—thick, white liquid spilled from her lips.

His cum.

She had never taken my cum in her mouth. Never.

But for him? She swallowed.

I should have been furious.

But I was hard—my cock straining in my pants.

I watched cum drip from her lips. My body trembled with arousal.

Only when she pulled back inside and closed the window did I leave.

I returned home and waited.

She came back minutes later.

Her face was calm. Normal.

I stared at her, searching for traces of what she'd just done.

Nothing.

She looked peaceful. Too peaceful.

I said nothing.

When she went to the bathroom, I checked her discarded panties.

Soaked.

Drenched.

I touched them—imagined what she'd felt.

I couldn't understand myself. My wife was being taken by another man—and I was turned on.

Maybe I'd grown bored. Maybe I craved something new.

Maybe, deep down, I wanted our stale marriage to be shaken.

After that day, I started checking her panties.

When she showered, I looked. When she slept, I pulled them down and checked.

Every day—soaked.

Each time, I imagined what she'd done with him.

And each time, I got hard.

I started buying her lingerie—lacy, provocative sets.

I wanted her to wear them for him.

I wanted him to see her like that.

One Sunday, as we prepared to go out, her phone rang.

She hung up, her face slightly tense.

"The school called. They need me to come in quickly. What should I do?"

"Really? Then I'll come with you. We can stop by."

"No, I'll just go alone—"

"No, it's fine. I'll wait in the car."

She hesitated, then fell silent.

Something felt off, but I didn't think much of it.

We drove to the school.

I parked, and she walked inside.

I stepped out to smoke.

Then I saw it—his car, parked in the corner.

My heart sank.

He was here.

On a Sunday. No other teachers around.

They could be alone.

My hand trembled as I lit the cigarette.

I inhaled sharply and walked toward the school.

I moved quietly, heading to the staff room.

Through the corridor window, I saw only an old teacher—probably the principal—reading a newspaper.

No sign of them.

They were somewhere else.

I started checking classrooms—first floor, then second.

Nothing.

By the time I reached the fourth floor, my heart was pounding.

I couldn't breathe.

I crept into each empty classroom.

Then I saw them.

In one of the rooms, standing in front of the blackboard.

They were embracing—whispering to each other like lovers.

His arms around her waist. Her smiling, blissful.

They looked like a couple in love.

The betrayal burned.

But deep inside—excitement stirred.

"Your husband's outside. Are you sure this is okay?"

"He won't notice. He never does."

"What if we take too long?"

"I told him I'd be late. It's fine."

"It's more thrilling knowing he's out there, isn't it?"

"I know. Kiss me."

She wanted him. More than I'd ever seen.

They kissed—deep, passionate.

His hands roamed her body. She didn't resist.

After a while, he pulled back.

"Will you make me happy today?"

"Yes. Anytime."

"God, I'm already excited. Let's start with your clothes."

He stepped back and sat on a desk at the front.

She stood before the board, smiled at him—then began to undress.

My wife. Undressing for another man.

I burned with rage.

But I was also hard.

She stripped down to her underwear.

And then—my breath caught.

She was wearing lingerie I'd never seen.

Sheer mesh bra. Lace panties. Garter belt with stockings.

She'd dressed for him.

She'd planned this.

She'd worn it while leaving with me.

The thought stunned me.

When I saw her naked at home, I felt nothing.

But seeing her like this—before another man—I found her beautiful.

Strange.

The shy, reserved woman I knew had transformed.

In front of him, she was sensual. Confident. A seductress.

She posed like a model.

She wasn't the wife I knew.

She was someone else—someone filthy, hungry.

"Can't wait to see how you'll seduce me today."

"I'll make you beg."

"Good. I'm counting on it."

They moved like they'd done this countless times.

She danced—sensual, slow.

She pulled her panties down—then up. Teasing.

Then finally, she dropped them.

Her pussy—dark curls exposed.

She spread her legs, swayed her hips, offered herself.

Then she reached behind and unhooked her bra.

She tossed it aside.

Now only the garter and stockings remained.

She stepped close to him, thrust her chest forward, and shook them.

He reached out—touched her breasts.

She took his face in her hands and pulled it to his chest.

He licked, sucked.

She moaned.

His hand slid down—into her thighs.

She spread her legs and welcomed it.

As he touched her, she rotated her hips—shameless.

Then she knelt, unzipped his pants, and pulled him out.

She wrapped her hand around his cock—stroked slowly.

He groaned.

After a while, she turned—presented her back to him.

She bent over, spread her ass cheeks—offered her pussy.

She looked like a whore.

I burned with jealousy.

But I wanted to run in—grab her, and shove my cock into that same hole.

I watched.

He dropped to his knees behind her—buried his face between her legs.

He licked—loud, wet, greedy.

"Mmm… yes… harder… harder…"

She begged.

He obeyed.

I watched—my breath ragged.

I wanted to run in—shove my cock into her mouth.

But I couldn't move.

She pushed him down—squatted over his face, her pussy above his mouth.

He spread her folds—licked deeper.

She reached down—grabbed his cock and jerked it fast.

I couldn't take it.

This was more intense than any porn.

"Ah… ah… I want it. I want your cock inside me."

"Won't your husband come looking?"

"He won't find us. He's probably waiting, annoyed. But I don't care. Right now, I only need you."

"You're so bold. Your husband's outside, and you're doing this."

"Isn't that why you like me?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"I'm going to take it now. I'm going to take your hot cock deep inside me."

"Do it. I want to be inside you."

She rose from his face—turned, and squatted over his cock.

She guided it to her entrance—then slowly sank down.

I saw it clearly.

His thick cock disappearing into her pussy.

She took it all—no hesitation.

As his cock vanished inside her, my mind went blank.

This was real.

My wife—fucking another man in front of me.

She began to ride him—her hips slamming down.

Her ass bounced—his cock vanishing and reappearing.

Wet, slapping sounds filled the room.

His grunts. Her moans.

His cock, slick with her juices, glistened.

She wasn't mine anymore.

She was shared.

And right now—he was happier than I'd ever been.

"Ah… ah… I'm coming… I'm coming…"

"Please… cum inside me. Fill me with your cum. Now!"

"Ah… ah… I'm coming… fuck!"

He roared—his body shaking.

Then he collapsed.

She stopped, leaned on his chest.

They were one.

I watched—aroused and furious.

After a while, she stood.

His cock slipped out—white cum oozed from her pussy.

She didn't wipe it.

She pulled her panties on—over his cum.

She'd come home with his seed inside her.

As she dressed, I left—returned to the car.

I tried to calm down.

She came back minutes later.

How do you face your wife after seeing her swallow another man's cum?

After watching her ride another man's cock?

I didn't know.

I just started the car when she said, "Let's go."

And I drove.

But in my mind—her legs spread, his cock inside her—played on repeat.

And in the corner of my chest, a dark, shameful desire bloomed.

I wanted to see it again.