The Maintenance Request

You resettled into your chair at the dinner table, anxiously avoiding eye contact with your husband, Mike, following your return from the bathroom.

Mike glanced up from his phone, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "The maintenance guy finally got back to me." A chill instantly ran through you, causing every muscle to tense reflexively.

"He's discovered another issue," Mike continued, oblivious to the double entendre in his words, "He mentioned there’s a leak or something in the bedroom. Needs to drill a hole to fix it, then fill it back it up. He’s coming back tomorrow to handle it." Each word seemed to echo the actions of the man who had taken advantage of you while blindfolded, the way he had possessed you, the one you believed was your husband.

A burning sensation radiated through your body, emanating from your sore hole. Mike, noticing your strained expression, displayed a flash of concern. "You okay, babe? You seem a bit off tonight."

The need to flee overwhelmed you, and you excused yourself again, Mike's voice filled with concern trailing after you. "Sick, babe? You've been to the bathroom quite a bit."

"Just a bit, sorry," you mumbled, hastening to the refuge of the bathroom. Pulling down your pants, you were greeted by the sight of your second pair of stained underwear of the night, a humiliating reminder of the semen still leaking from your ravaged body. You quickly shed your soiled clothes and stepped into the shower, desperate to wash away the remnants of the ordeal.

Under the steaming cascade of the shower, tears melded with the water, each drop echoing the cruel cycle of today's events that replayed endlessly in your mind. Blindfolded and overwhelmed by lust, you had surrendered completely, pleading to be ravaged more from the unknown man. You had offered your body completely, and he had claimed it thoroughly, exceeding your cries for fulfillment.

In retrospect, there were subtle signs—the rough, callused hands significantly larger than Mike’s, the deep, animalistic grunts, and the unfamiliar brush of chest hair against your back. At that moment, however, these details were drowned out by the overwhelming intensity of pleasure—the unforgettable girth of his cock, the force of his thrusts that stole your breath, and the loads that filled you beyond anything you'd ever experienced.

A wave of guilt washed over you, crashing forcefully against your conscience. The life-altering ecstasy you felt was linked to another, not your husband. You recalled how, as the man left after thoroughly using you, you had found yourself wishing you could experience a fuck like that every single day. The shame of having craved a stranger’s touch gnawed at you, compounded by the deep wish that it had been Mike who had driven you to such ecstasy. Your tumultuous reflections were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the bathroom door. "Is it that bad? Want me to stay home tomorrow?" Mike’s voice, laden with concern, cut through the fog of your clouded thoughts, pulling you back to reality.

You became acutely aware of your own hard cock, insistent and undeniable, as your fingers were exploring your still-sensitive hole. Struggling against the urge to moan, you barely managed to stifle a moan, offering a feeble reply, "I'll be fine, love. You should head to work; I'll just be resting." Until now, you had merely concealed truths from your husband, but with this response, you crossed into outright deception.

Mixed emotions swirled within you as you thought about the impending confrontation—fear, anger, anticipation, arousal.