A Day Before!
Renard sat on the sofa, his body tense, his eyes burning from lack of sleep. He had been staring at the door all night, waiting.
He had been waiting all night, but Samantha still hadn't come home.
Sleep had been impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured images he didn't want to see—couldn't stop seeing. Now it was morning, and dark circles had formed under his eyes like bruises. His mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions, each thought more torturous than the last.
He blamed himself for everything that had led to this moment. After all, it had all started because of his own mistakes, his own failures as a husband.
Last night felt like a living nightmare. Samantha had stayed with Roy and Sofia—while he was left alone in their empty house, surrounded by the ghosts of their happier times.
He didn't know what happened between them. The not knowing was eating him alive.
Did they sleep together?
Did Samantha let Roy touch her in ways that were supposed to be only his?
Did she do it just to hurt him back—to make him feel the same pain he had caused her?
Did Samantha let Roy fuck her?
Every time his mind wandered to the possibility of Samantha and Roy together, a sharp pain pierced through his chest like a blade. The betrayal, the loss, the humiliation—it all crashed over him in waves.
But then—and this was what terrified him most—buried beneath all that anguish was something else. Something dark and shameful that made his stomach twist with self-loathing.
His mind tortured him with visions—Samantha under Roy's hands, her body arching, her lips parting in pleasure. The way she used to moan for him, but now… was it for someone else. As she was screaming Roy name as he fucked her brain out. His cock thrusting into her pussy, stretching her and reaching her deeper!
A part of him... was aroused by the thought.
The very idea of his beautiful wife in another man's arms, responding to Roy's touch, giving herself to someone else—it sent a sick thrill through his body that he couldn't understand or control. His body betrayed him even as his heart broke.
He felt utterly disgusted with himself.
What kind of man am I?he thought, burying his face in his hands. What kind of sick person gets excited thinking about their wife cheating on them?
But no matter how much he tried to push those thoughts away, they kept creeping back. The mental images became more vivid, more detailed. His imagination painted scenes of Samantha's soft moans, her back arching, her hands gripping Roy's shoulders—and each image sent another confusing jolt of arousal through him even as it tore his heart apart.
He hated himself for it. Hated that some twisted part of his psyche was finding pleasure in his own humiliation. Was this his punishment? Was this how his mind was processing the guilt and pain—by turning it into some perverse fantasy?
The contradiction was driving him insane. How could he simultaneously be devastated and aroused? How could the same thoughts that made him want to cry also make his pulse quicken in that shameful way?
his cock stiffening against his will as the images burned behind his eyelids.
Samantha. Roy. Naked. Fucking.
He hated himself for it—for the way his dick throbbed at the thought of his wife spread beneath another man. But he couldn't stop imagining it.
Roy's thick hands groping her tits, his mouth sucking bruises into her neck. Samantha's back arching, her nails digging into his shoulders as he pounded into her—harder than Renard ever had. Her lips parting in a scream—not his name. Never his name again. Roy's.
His stomach twisted with disgust. But his cock didn't care. It ached, leaking into his boxers like some pathetic, cuckolded animal.
Then—the key in the lock.
The door swung open.
Samantha stepped inside, and Renard's breath hitched.
Her hair was wild, tangled. Her lips swollen. Samantha walked in, and Renard's breath caught in his throat. She looked... different. There was something in her posture, in the way she moved, that he couldn't quite place. She appeared calm on the surface, but there was a distance in her eyes—like she was seeing him from very far away.
She smelled like sweat. Like sex. Like Roy.
She didn't even look at him at first, just walked past him as if he were a piece of furniture and poured herself a glass of water. Her movements were deliberate, controlled, but there was something underneath—a tension, maybe guilt, maybe defiance.
Renard's eyes searched her desperately for clues. Was her hair slightly messed up? Did her clothes look wrinkled? Was there something different about the way she held herself?
His mind raced with possibilities, each one sending that same confusing mix of pain and arousal coursing through him.
Renard quickly stood up, his legs shaky from sitting in the same position all night.
He took a hesitant step toward her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, wanting to say something—anything—but terrified of what he might hear in response.
"Samantha, I—"
But she just looked at him with those distant eyes and said, "Let me shower first."
Her tone was cool. Controlled. Clinical.
The word 'shower' hit him like a physical blow. Why did she need to shower so urgently? What was she washing off? The implications made his mind spiral further into that dark place where pain and arousal intertwined in the most disturbing way.
Renard froze mid-sentence. He wanted to speak—wanted to ask what happened, whether she was okay, whether they could talk, whether she still loved him, whether she had...
But nothing came out.
The words died in his throat.
It felt like everything had fundamentally changed between them, like they were now strangers sharing the same space. The easy intimacy they had once shared seemed like a distant memory.
She walked past him toward the bathroom, and for a brief moment, he caught her scent. She smelled... different. Not just her usual perfume. There was something else there, something that made his stomach clench with a mixture of dread and that shameful excitement he couldn't suppress.
The bathroom door closed with a soft click.
The sound of running water started.
Renard stood there in the living room, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life, lost in the storm of his contradictory emotions. His body shook slightly—from exhaustion, from emotional overload, from the terrible war between his rational mind and his body's inexplicable responses.
He realized with crystal clarity that this was only the beginning. Whatever had happened last night, whatever lines had been crossed, they couldn't simply go back to the way things were. Something fundamental had shifted, and he wasn't sure if it could ever be repaired.
The worst part was that even as his heart broke, even as he felt like he was dying inside, that dark part of him was already wondering what she would tell him when she came out of that shower.