I didn't know what to say. My tongue felt like dead weight in my mouth, thick and dry. Ray had said something as we stood there, maybe a joke or a casual remark—but the words bounced off me, meaningless. I couldn't reply. I didn't even look at him. My mind was still stuck on what I had just seen.
It felt like I'd lost something. Not her, not entirely, but something else. Dignity. Control. The right to even be angry. I hadn't fought. Hadn't protested. I just sat there while another man put his hands all over my wife, bent her over like she was nothing more than a prop for his amusement. I never stepped in, never said stop, never pulled her away. It felt like I had surrendered—without even realizing the fight had started. Like I'd been outplayed in a game I didn't even know I was part of.
I forced myself to move. I reached out and took her hand. No resistance, no words. Just the faintest tension in her fingers. I mumbled a goodbye to Ray—polite, robotic, hollow and we left.
The air outside was cool but offered no relief. It couldn't erase the heat that had settled in my chest, or the twisting sickness crawling through my gut. She walked beside me in silence, our hands still joined, but it felt like we were walking out of something we couldn't come back from. My thoughts wouldn't stop racing. They looped, over and over, to that room. That music. That moment.
She had been grinding on him. Not just dancing—grinding. Her ass locked against his crotch. Every move of her ass had pressed tighter into the hard bulge between his legs. She had moved with him like her body had done it before, like she knew the rhythm by instinct. Her dress had climbed up inch by inch, her bare skin flashing every time he pulled her closer. I saw her ass jiggle when he humped against her from behind, slow and deep, as if they were fucking fully clothed.
And I watched. I watched every second. Like a pervert. Like a coward.
I kept trying to tell myself it wasn't her fault. Maybe she was surprised. Maybe she just followed along because stopping would have made it worse. Maybe it was the wine, the mood, the music. But no matter how I tried to justify it, my mind kept dragging me back to how she moved. The way she pushed back into him. The way her fingers gripped the carpet when he bent her down. The way she let him lift her, spread her, show me everything. Her pussy flashed between her thighs like some trophy he'd earned.
I should have stopped it. I should have pulled her away the moment his hand slid down to her ass. But I didn't. I sat there like I was chained to the couch, eyes wide, breathing shallow, watching her get handled like a fucking toy. And God help me, I was getting hard watching it. I felt it throbbing—trapped in my pants, aching while my wife was dry-humped like a bitch in heat right in front of me. That's the part I can't get over. Not that she let it happen. Not that he took it too far. But that some disgusting part of me wanted it to keep going.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Was it jealousy? Was it fear? Or something even lower, some sick need to see how far she'd let it go? A part of me wanted to see her moan. To see her hips push harder. To see Ray unzip and take it to the next step. It was buried deep, but it was there. And it makes me hate myself more than anything else.
She didn't look at me while we walked. Her face was stiff, almost embarrassed. She had to know it wasn't okay. She had to feel how close she got to something irreversible. But she didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Just silence. Maybe she was hoping I wouldn't bring it up. Maybe she didn't know how to.
And honestly, neither did I.
What was I supposed to say? That she let another man grope her, grind into her, expose her body while I sat there like a neutered idiot? That I saw her hole spread open for someone else? That I saw her lips part, her eyes flutter shut, like she was lost in the pleasure of it? That I was hard while it all happened? I couldn't say those things. I couldn't even admit them fully to myself.
But I could feel it in my chest. The sickness. The heat. The shame. I could still feel the pressure in my cock from when I saw her thrown over his lap and bounced like she belonged to him. It's wrong. All of it. And yet… I wanted to see it again. Not because I wanted to lose her—but because I wanted to understand what the fuck I was feeling. I wanted to know how something so filthy could make me feel both destroyed and aroused at the same time.
Ray didn't even try to hide it. The way he grabbed her, the way he looked at me while exposing her—it was all deliberate. Like he was telling me she wasn't mine anymore. Or maybe he was daring me to stop him. Testing me. And I failed.
I failed completely.
And now here we were. Walking home, quiet, pretending we hadn't just crossed a line none of us were ready for. My hand was still holding hers, but it didn't feel like connection. It felt like a grip on something slipping away.
I could've said something. I could've stopped and made her look at me. But instead, I swallowed the lump in my throat and kept walking beside her, drowning in silence. Maybe she was ashamed. Maybe she was confused. Or maybe she had felt something in his touch—something that part of her didn't want to admit.
God, I didn't know what was worse. But I knew one thing. That dance wasn't just a dance. And I would never forget what it did to me.
We reached home without a word. The silence felt thicker than the night air, clinging to us like sweat. As soon as we stepped in, she muttered something about taking a bath and slipped away into the bathroom. I just nodded, not trusting myself to say anything. The sound of running water came a few minutes later, soft and distant, like the echo of something I'd lost.
I dropped onto the couch and stared blankly at the floor. My shoulders slumped, my arms heavy. Every muscle in my body felt like it carried the weight of my shame. I wasn't angry at her—not really. Not even at Ray. I was angry at myself. For what I felt. For what I didn't do.
I hated that I let it happen. I hated that I sat there, frozen, like some useless prop watching my wife get handled like a piece of meat. But more than that, I hated the part of me that got aroused watching it. That sick, buried part of me that twitched when Ray bent her over and humped against her like he owned her. The part that wanted to see what would've happened if I hadn't been there at all.
I told myself I wouldn't bring it up. No good would come from it. It was just a dance. A bad one. A mistake. Ray went too far, sure, but maybe she didn't know how to stop it without making a scene. She probably hated herself for letting it get that far. She was probably in that bathroom right now, cursing herself in silence. Washing off his scent. Scrubbing away the shame.
And here I was, sitting on this couch like a coward.
It wasn't her fault. It was mine. I should've stopped it the second his hands went low. I should've pulled her away when I saw the look in his eyes. But I didn't. I froze. I watched. I let it happen.
I failed her.
I was supposed to protect her—from men like Ray, from moments like that. And I didn't. I let it play out right in front of me, like some sick voyeur. I had no right to blame her. She trusted me to be strong, and I sat there with my cock stiff and my mouth shut while another man grabbed her ass and made her moan to the rhythm of his hips.
I leaned back, eyes burning, chest tight. The sound of the water still ran behind the bathroom door, and it made it worse somehow. I imagined her in there, naked, her skin still warm from the heat of that dance. Her thighs sticky. Her lips red and swollen. And I hated myself for thinking it.
Maybe it was the guilt. Maybe the exhaustion. I don't know. But I couldn't stay awake anymore. I didn't even say goodnight. I just let my eyes close, still fully dressed, my body sinking into the couch like I was trying to disappear into it.
Sleep didn't bring peace. Just silence.
And the bitter taste of defeat still lingering on my tongue.