[Being a husband is difficult] (03) Author: derksen

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

Author: derksen
Word count: 4175

yzwnxhpb.png.

Click to see larger image

It's hard to be a husband! (3)

Although I quickened my pace and went around to the other side of the alley, I still seemed to have lost my wife.

This alley was completely hidden from the outside main road. The low-rise old apartment buildings
blocked formed a narrow and secluded alley. It seemed to be a world of its own. It was only five
o'clock in the afternoon, but there were already more than a dozen women soliciting customers.

Some were karaoke bars where women accompanied customers to drink and grope them. Some were cheap
hotels . The two dimly lit hotels in the alley were probably
the places where these women solicited customers on the street and let them enjoy their bodies.

As I passed by, the women around me started offering their services. Some were unbelievably cheap, and upon closer inspection,
they were clearly elderly women over fifty. A young, pretty girl offered similar prices
, but I could see horrifying needle marks on her hands.

Why was my wife here? Although it was a rhetorical question, it was hard to believe she
would frequent such a place where respectable women shouldn't be.

Was it for money? I remember last year, after my father-in-law fell in the bathroom, his health deteriorated. Hiring a
caregiver was a monthly expense, and although my wife said her brother would help, and I shouldn't worry, it was still
a considerable cost.

If my wife came here every week to earn money like this, based on the
prices , it would be almost equal to her monthly expenses.

Perhaps her monthly burden was truly too high? When we registered the house in her name, she said
she felt bad and asked me to share half of the mortgage payments.

If we split our living expenses and our son's expensive monthly kindergarten fees equally, my wife's
salary, while not low, would be insufficient if we also had to cover her father's monthly care expenses.

Considering my wife's independent and stubborn personality, perhaps it's my lack of generosity and responsibility as the
head of the household that has forced her to endure such hardship.

But even so, what can I do now? I haven't received a salary this month, the economy
is bad I'm constantly facing rejections at job interviews.

Suddenly, an idea flashed through my mind. I quickly returned to the car and used my phone to
check if there were any open
positions at a second-tier competitor in the same industry as my former company—the building my wife had entered that day. Fortunately, while there were no longer any supervisory positions, there was still a junior staff position available.

Supervisory positions aren't easy to get these days; what I really need is to ensure
I have enough income each month so my wife doesn't have to worry about the mortgage as soon as possible.

On the other hand, it would also allow me to keep a close eye on my wife's every move, so I can protect her immediately if anything happens to her
.

After making up my mind, I immediately drove to a nearby fast food restaurant, took out my laptop, connected to the internet, prepared my
resume, and sent my information to the company's HR manager to apply for the job.

That evening, as usual, I pretended to work overtime until late and returned home. My wife was indeed asleep, having finished washing up
and smelling of shower gel and shampoo, looking like a fresh-faced, mature woman again, without a
trace the weariness I had seen in the afternoon.

In the bathroom basin, there were still underwear with a faint fishy smell, but I didn't see her
dress and flesh-colored stockings.

I closed the bathroom door, turned on the shower, and pretended to take a shower. Under the cover of the running water, I took the plastic box out from behind the fake
wall .

Opening the box, it seemed to still contain those things, but the white satin
dress .

I put the box back and picked up the underwear and stockings that my wife had thrown into the small basin.

There was a smudge near the inner thigh of my pantyhose that wasn't completely dry, emitting a
faint but still strong, fishy odor.

My wife's semi-transparent white lace panties, unsurprisingly, still carried

that pungent smell, a mixture of male and female bodily fluids that made my lower body uncontrollably engorged.

I had originally intended to take advantage of my erection to go back to the bedroom and rekindle our months-long intimacy—
but a knot in my heart tugged at the thought of how many men had already penetrated her, and I hesitated
. It was clearly my incompetence that had caused her this, yet I still harbored
resentment .

Finally, I put my wife's pantyhose over my penis, grasped it with my right hand, and
began masturbating. Soon after, the friction from the pantyhose stimulated me, and I ejaculated.

However, after my semen stained my wife's brown pantyhose, the stench became even stronger and more persistent.
I was instantly aroused again, and before I could finish, I
ejaculated three times on her pantyhose (once on her toes, twice on her inner thighs) and once on her silk underwear.

I put her underwear and pantyhose back in the small basin, quickly washed up, and went to sleep.

A few days later, I received a job interview invitation. During these weekdays, I continued
to follow . She indeed followed her normal commute, taking the subway to the vicinity of the company and walking
into the office; nothing seemed amiss.

However, on the day of my interview, my wife got into her Buick again.

I drove after her to the office building and sat in a nearby coffee shop, waiting for my
2 interview while wondering how I should react if I ran into her in the building. But after thinking about it
all morning, I still didn't know how to face my wife. If she dressed
like , how could I possibly force a natural smile and greet her? I'd probably just have to pretend I didn't see her, pretend I didn't recognize
her. After all, with that heavy makeup, those thick false eyelashes, and that slut-like
demeanor and expression, she seemed just like anyone else. Even if I didn't recognize her, it seemed perfectly reasonable. I

just wasted the afternoon in the coffee shop. Then, wearing a sharp suit, I walked into that old, vintage
building. The security guard at the entrance was a slightly older man with graying hair and a bald head. He asked me to show my ID in a lazy
tone to exchange for a visitor's pass, and then waved me in without saying much more.

But he looked at me the whole time with a gaze as if I had a grain of rice stuck to my face—perhaps because my

suit was clearly out of place with the run-down businesses in the building.

I took the elevator to the floor of the company I was interviewing with. The receptionist at the door invited me into the lounge to sit down and told me to review the interview materials first, and then go to the HR manager's office
at the scheduled time . I sat down and quickly flipped through the documents. These materials, printed on an old printer, were basically about the company's business scope, recent performance, and so on. I could imagine that even if I got the job, with my past experience, I wouldn't necessarily get half of my previous salary. As I was looking at the documents and pondering whether I should rush into applying for this job, my stomach started hurting . I checked the time and saw I still had half an hour. I figured I could make it in time if I went quickly, so I went out of the lounge and asked a random employee for directions to the restroom. However, one of the men's restroom stalls was out of order, and the other was already occupied. Seeing that the emergency staircase was nearby , I pushed open the emergency door and climbed up to the first floor. This floor belonged to some obscure chemical company, and the decor looked quite old. Although I felt rather embarrassed using someone else's restroom without permission, I didn't care too much and went into the outermost stall, sitting down on the toilet. After a while, just as I was about to get up, I heard the door to the stall two stalls away —the cleaning staff—open. Was it the cleaning staff? It didn't seem so. After the cleaning staff door opened, a strange female moan came from inside—the sound was like the tired moan of someone being woken up in the middle of the night, yet it was coming from the men's cleaning staff stall. Then came the rustling sound of someone unzipping their pants and pulling them down, followed by a series of "slap, slap, slap, slap" sounds of thighs and buttocks hitting each other. Were a man and woman slacking off at work, having a rendezvous in the restroom? As I cleaned and wiped, I listened to the woman's seemingly weak moans. If it was a rendezvous, why was she so listless, like a dead fish? After pulling up my pants, driven by curiosity, I crouched down and peeked into the cleaning room through the space about twenty centimeters below the cubicle. The woman next door was wearing bright red peep-toe peep-toe shoes with black soles and red stockings, kneeling like a bitch as the man behind her thrust into her again and again. When the man thrust in particularly hard, a few drops of slippery fluid appeared on the floor. The woman seemed quite exhausted; her hands, being fucked, seemed almost too weak to support her body, her elbows trembling slightly. Following the woman's fair arm, I saw her right ring finger—wearing a ring of a somewhat familiar style, a very simple gold ring like my wife's, with only a single diamond set in the band, without any extra decorations or embellishments. Such an extremely simple design is rare in this era where buying a ring is about flaunting extravagance. But I couldn't see it clearly and couldn't be sure if it was the same style as my wife's ring. I wondered if this woman being fucked like a bitch was my wife. But the woman's moans seemed higher-pitched and drawn out. Although similar to my wife's voice, there was a subtle difference. I had never heard such moans when I made love with my wife. My wife's voice was more even and less strained. This woman's voice didn't sound like that of a well-educated, respectable woman. It sounded more like that of a slut who thought about seducing men all day long, and who, while being fucked, unabashedly used arousal-like sounds to make men thrust faster. I strained to see the woman's face, but couldn't make out anything. All I could see were several patches of whitish bodily fluid on her stockings . The pungent smell of the fluid on the stockings sent a shiver down my spine, like a teenager's. As I began to rub my crotch with my right hand, I suddenly realized it was almost my turn . I quickly left the stall, closing the door behind me. The door slammed shut with a loud clang, seemingly unbothered by the man and woman engaged in intercourse. The man continued his rhythmic thrusting, slapping against the woman's buttocks. Time was short; I didn't have the patience to wait a few more minutes until they finished and see the woman's face . I hurried down the emergency stairs back to the waiting room for my interview. The interview consisted of nothing more than a few pleasantries, them saying I was excellent but unfortunately my company had gone bankrupt and I had to find another job, and that while they might not be able to afford my salary, they insisted I consider working for them. After the interview, I slipped upstairs to check the men's restroom; the cleaning room was empty, and there wasn't a speck of dirt on the floor. When I left the building to return my visitor's pass, the security guard, although a different middle-aged man had taken over the shift, still stared at my face with that same look, as if I'd wandered into a place I shouldn't be. It was around 3 PM when I left the building, and I planned to get back to my car and wait until around 5 PM to see if my wife would come out of the building again, just like that day. About ten minutes after I got back to my car, I saw a woman wearing flamboyant sunglasses, a large red hat with a very wide, soft brim that slightly obscured her face, and bright red lipstick that excessively emphasized her full lips. She looked like the woman I'd seen in the cleaning room being fucked like a bitch on her knees. She wore bright red, black-soled, stiletto-heeled peep-toe shoes with red stockings, and a deep V-neck red satin dress. As she swayed her hips as she walked out of the hallway and down the steps, her breasts almost burst out from the V-neck that plunged to her stomach. She paused at the door for a moment, seemingly looking this way, and shortly after, the familiar Buick pulled up and stopped in front of her. After this woman, with her flamboyant demeanor and attire, got into the car, I waited at the entrance for quite a while. During this time, I kept seeing cars coming and going from the building. Several vans with completely black veneer even entered and exited the obscure chemical company, making me suspect that the company might be a front for something else entirely. I waited until five o'clock, but my wife still hadn't come out like she had that day. Just as I was starting to worry, the Buick pulled into the building's underground parking lot, and shortly after, I saw my wife get into the back seat and leave.

The Buick sedan carried the woman who appeared at the chemical company, as well as his wife. Could it be that his wife came to
this building to go to that chemical company?

URL 1:https://www.sex3p.com/htmlBlog/176147.html

URL 2:/Blog.aspx?id=176147&aspx=1

Last access time:

Previous Page : [Auditor's Erotic Tale] (01-08) Author: Naoe Setsuna

Next Page : 【Green Hat Concerto】(06) Author: Toxin B

增加

comment Open a new window to view comments

Contact Information

[Being a husband is difficult] (03) Author: derksen

comment Open a new window to view comments