After my wife and I got married, life wasn't exactly wealthy, but it was stable. I worked as a clerk in a small company, and she worked rotating shifts at a textile factory on the outskirts of the city. Combining our salaries, we barely managed to support our small family.
My wife's looks are ordinary, but her skin is fair, and her figure is excellent. Her breasts aren't very big, but she has a slim waist, round buttocks, and long, straight legs. What I'm most obsessed with is her feet. White and tender, high arches, plump toes. Wearing flesh-colored stockings and high heels, it can practically make me hard. I have a serious foot fetish, which she knows well. Every time we have sex, I have her wear stockings and high heels. Sometimes I even put the heel in my mouth or have her give me a footjob with her stockinged feet. Although she doesn't reject it, she's not exactly enthusiastic either. Regarding our sex life, she has always been the 'accommodating type'—if you want it, I'll give it; if you don't mention it, she won't take the initiative.
And so, two years passed uneventfully.
One Sunday in the summer of 2008. The night before, we had gone at it a bit late, and I didn’t wake up until noon. The bed was already empty, and there was a note pressed under the pillow edge:
"Husband, something came up at the factory at the last minute, so I'm heading there first. The food is in the pot; heat it up yourself."
I ate a few bites casually and, feeling bored, turned on the computer. Not many friends were online on QQ. I casually clicked on her QQ, wanting to help her keep it online. I tried the password several times but couldn't get it right. Just as I was about to give up, I suddenly remembered that I had helped her set up the security questions. Relying on memory, I recovered the password and logged in.
A profile picture is flashing.
I clicked it open; there were only three words:
“Hurry up!”
My heart suddenly misses a beat. I open the chat history and scroll up.
“Put on the lingerie, stockings, and high heels you wore when you had sex with your husband yesterday, come downstairs and wait for me. We're going to play in the Luyun Mountain air-raid shelter.”
The time was this morning.
I stared at the screen, my mind buzzing. Fear, anger, disbelief... these emotions flashed only for a moment, quickly replaced by something stronger—a burning feeling of both shame and excitement surged from my lower abdomen straight to my head. He actually knew about our outfits last night. He actually had her wear the exact same clothes she wore when having sex with me to meet him.
The Luyun Mountain air-raid shelter isn't far from where we live. The school organized a trip there in junior high, but it was later sealed off due to danger, and now almost no one goes anymore. I practically rushed downstairs, hailed a taxi, and headed straight there.
Along the way, my mind was full of images: her wearing skin-colored thigh-high stockings and black high heels, squatting on the ground giving another man oral sex; her pressed down on a sleeping bag by that man, legs spread wide; the sounds she made when someone else was inside her... These fantasies didn’t make me so angry that I wanted to rush up and fight; instead, they made me painfully hard. I even felt a little impatient to see it with my own eyes.
The car stopped on the mountainside. I carefully made my way to the concrete platform above the air-raid shelter, hiding behind a clump of bushes.
She was right there.
My wife, who usually wears loungewear and no makeup at home, was now squatting on the concrete floor. She wore only a black embroidered bra on top and a pair of matching black panties with a bow on the side. Flesh-colored stockings covered her entire legs, and on her feet were those black high heels I love the most—studded with rhinestones on the sides, with heels a full eight centimeters high. She was bowing her head, hands on the ground, diligently giving a blowjob to a strange man.
The man was in his early thirties, slightly thin and ordinary-looking. He held the back of her head with one hand, while the other had already slipped into her bra to knead.
“Slut, take off your bra and hang it higher.”
She stood up as instructed, unhooked her bra, and hung it on a nearby branch. The man, however, was not satisfied:
“Raise it higher. Turn the inside side outward so I can see clearly where your nipples are.”
Her face flushed intensely, but she still did as told. Standing on tiptoe, she hung the bra higher, with the side that usually touched her breasts completely facing outward. I secretly took a photo with my phone. My cock was already so hard it almost burst through my pants.
She squatted back down and continued giving oral sex. The man grabbed her breasts with both hands, kneading them forcefully, still saying:
"Your husband would never have imagined that the wife he fucked last night would come today wearing the same outfit to serve another man. Stockings, panties, high heels, and this little mouth and the pussy below—what part of that is still his exclusive property? Haha... I'll have even more fun playing with you than he did. How about it, slut, yes or no?"
She nodded, mumbling an indistinct response.
I hid behind the bushes, fingers trembling as I continued taking photos. A sense of shame surged up like a tide, yet was drowned out by an even stronger excitement. I was actually watching my own wife being treated like this by someone else, and I was hard.
The man finally pulled out:
"All right, it's time to play with your pussy. Lay out the sleeping bag."
As if she already knew the routine, she took out a sleeping bag from the side, spread it on the concrete floor. Then she took off her panties herself, handed them to the man, and obediently lay down. The man brought the panties to his nose and took a deep breath, laughing:
“A slut is a slut; even the juice they leak is especially slutty. Put your hands around your legs.”
She lifted her legs. This position fully exposed her private parts. Her feet, clad in stockings and high heels, swayed gently in the air. The man didn't insert immediately but crouched down to stare at her lower body, still holding her damp panties in his hand:
“Did your husband finish fucking you yesterday and then wash you up?”
“Washed...” Her voice was soft and shy, with obvious nervousness.
"I fuck you once, and when you go back, you're not allowed to wash. You have to wait until your husband fucks you again before you're allowed to wash. Let him fuck the place I fucked, understand?"
"Got it..."
The man inserted two fingers and began pumping rapidly. She soon let out suppressed moans. The man sped up, and her arms, which were holding her legs, began to feel weak. The man suddenly growled:
“Hold tight!”
She immediately hugged her legs tightly. The man let out a satisfied laugh, then did something that completely stunned me—he took off one of her high heels, examined it carefully, then pulled a condom from his pocket and slipped it onto the eight-centimeter heel.
He aimed the heel at her entrance and slowly pushed it in.
"Your husband has good taste. I like these shoes."
He held the shoe upper and slowly rotated and pumped it. The heel went all the way in and then came out; the condom on it was quickly coated with her bodily fluids. She bit her lip, but spread her legs even wider. The man had her hold the high heel that was still inserted in her body, then stood up himself to admire the sight:
“What a generous wife. Lying here in sexy stockings, one foot in high heels, while the other shoe’s heel is stuck in her own pussy. So slutty.”
After a while, he finally pulled the shoe heel out and put her shoe back on (the condom was not removed). Then he lifted her legs, took out his own thing, aimed at the entrance, and thrust all the way in.
I saw with my own eyes that penis, which did not belong to me, enter my wife's body.
He started thrusting hard, both hands tightly gripping her feet in high heels. The wet sound of the pumping was especially clear in the quiet mouth of the air-raid shelter. Her moans gradually loosened, and her legs swayed gently on his shoulders. The man suddenly flung her high heels two meters away, revealing her feet wrapped in stockings, then lowered his head and bit and sucked them fiercely. She screamed even louder.
In the end, his whole body pressed down on her, his hips thrusting rapidly a dozen times, then he completely collapsed and stopped moving.
After a long while, he finally got up. He peeled off the torn stockings from her feet, casually hung them on a tree branch, had her put the rest of her clothes back on, then helped her walk down the mountain. Before leaving, he didn't forget to glance back at the stockings hanging on the tree.
After their figures completely disappeared, I stood up from behind the bushes. My legs felt a bit weak. I walked to that concrete area and picked up the stockings still hanging on the branch. The stockings were torn, with obvious bite marks and unidentified fluid stains. I brought them to my nose and took a deep breath.
Then, I stuffed the stockings into my pocket, slowly went down the mountain, and went home.
That night she came back very late. I pretended to have just woken up and asked her about things at the factory; she just gave a few brief answers before going to shower. As the sound of water from the bathroom started, I sat on the edge of the bed and took out the pair of stockings from my pocket, looking at them for a long time.
Since then, I started “accidentally” opening her QQ more and more often.
And that afternoon in the Luyun Mountain air-raid shelter became the most secretive, yet indelible, real memory of my marriage.
Some things, once seen with your own eyes, can never be pretended to be unknown.
Some pleasures, once tasted, can never be the same again.
Since returning that afternoon, the air in the house had completely changed.
On the surface, nothing happened. She continued working night shifts as usual, came back to shower, eat, and occasionally have sex with me. I would, as before, have her wear flesh-colored stockings and those black high heels studded with rhinestones. I would hold her feet, kiss them, bite them, gently rub her entrance with the heel. She also cooperated as always, emitting soft moans, lying quietly after I ejaculated inside.
But I know it’s different now.
Every time I enter her body, the shadow of that man flashes through my mind—how he held her high-heeled feet and fucked her hard, how he put the heel in a condom and inserted it, how he bit through her stockings. What's worse, the words he said before leaving keep echoing in my ears:
"I fuck you once, and when you go back, you're not allowed to wash. You have to wait until your husband fucks you again before you're allowed to wash."
That night she really didn't shower immediately. When I pretended to wake up and asked her about things at the factory, she just gave vague answers, then went to the bathroom. The water ran for a long time. I sat on the edge of the bed, repeatedly rubbing, sniffing the pair of bitten-through stockings in my pocket until I came once myself, then stuffed the stockings into the deepest part of the drawer.
From that day on, I developed a new habit.
Every day after she goes to work, I open her QQ. I've memorized the password. Most of the time, the chat history is empty, occasionally with a few trivial messages. But every few days, that avatar would flash again.
"Are you free tonight?"
“The old place.”
“Wear that black set, change the stockings to a new pair, and keep the same shoes.”
Once he even asked directly:
"Has your husband noticed anything lately? When he fucks you, did he say it feels different inside?"
She replied:
“No. He’s the same as before.”
I stared at that line of text, my heart beating so fast it almost exploded. She was actually discussing with that man how it felt when I fucked her. Shame burned my nerves like red-hot iron, yet my lower body was painfully hard.
I started tailing more frequently.
It wasn’t every time they went to Luyun Mountain. Sometimes they changed locations—a hourly room on the outskirts of the city, an abandoned warehouse by the river, and once even the changing room at her factory during a night shift break. I learned how to hide farther away and shoot with my phone’s zoom, and how to rush in the moment they left, collecting the stockings, underwear, and even used tissues she had left behind.
The time that most shattered me and also most excited me was a rainy night a month later.
That day, she said there was overtime at the factory and she'd be back very late. I arrived early and waited in the bushes near the air-raid shelter. The rain wasn't heavy but enough to wet the ground. When they came, they shared an umbrella. She was still wearing the outfit I knew best: black lace lingerie, flesh-colored stockings, and those eight-centimeter black high heels. The rain made the stockings somewhat transparent, clinging to her calves, clearly showing the color of her skin.
This time, the man seemed particularly interested. He wasn't in a hurry to have sex. Instead, he had her lean against the stone wall by the cave entrance, squatted down himself, and slowly licked her stocking-clad feet. From the shoe tips to the ankles, then up along her calves. The stockings became wet and shiny from his tongue. She looked down at him, her expression somewhat ashamed, but she didn't stop him.
"Does your husband like your feet?" he asked while licking.
“Like… like a lot.”
"What kind of play does he like?"
“With your mouth……sucking on toes, sometimes he would put the heel……in.”
The man laughed, his voice sounding exceptionally clear in the rain:
“Then today let me also try the place your husband has used.”
He told her to put one foot on his shoulder, and, supporting that already purple-hard thing himself, aimed at the place her heel had once entered and slowly pushed in. She let out a soft, long moan, fingers gripping the stone wall beneath her. The man didn’t start thrusting right away, but kept the deep position, reaching out to take off the high heel on her other foot and stuffing it into her mouth:
“Keep it in your mouth. Like you’re sucking your husband’s thing.”
She really took it into her mouth. The red lipstick soon smeared on the heel, and saliva dripped down the shoe's surface. Only then did the man start thrusting forcefully, each stroke deep and heavy. The sound of rain, the sound of flesh colliding, and her muffled sobs blocked by the high heel mixed together, becoming the most obscene symphony I heard that night.
I hid behind a tree, one hand bracing against the trunk, the other quickly stroking myself. When I came, I almost couldn't stand steady; semen splattered on the damp grass blades, quickly washed clean by the rain.
They did it for a long time. The man changed positions several times, and in the end entered from behind, gripping her ankles tightly with both hands and folding her nearly in half. When he came, he did not pull out, but thrust hard to the very deepest place, letting out a low growl as he poured everything in.
After finishing, he kept her legs spread apart, took out his phone, and took several photos of her still slightly opening and closing, continuously overflowing with white, turbid fluid.
“Send it to your husband to look at? Forget it, I’ll just keep it for myself. When you go back, remember... this time you can wash, but before you wash, let your husband fuck you one more time. I want him to taste the flavor of what I just came inside.”
She softly uttered an 'mm,' her voice soft and husky.
That night when she came home, it was already 2 a.m. I pretended to be asleep. She climbed into bed quietly, her body still languid from what had happened. After about ten minutes, her hand cautiously slipped into my pajamas and grasped my already hard-for-a-long-time thing.
I rolled over and pinned her down, not turning on the light. In the darkness, I felt her legs still clad in stockings—she actually hadn't taken them off. The stockings were already a bit wrinkled, and she even still wore those high heels on her feet. She had clearly followed the man's instructions, bringing the 'post-fuck' state directly home.
When I entered her, I clearly felt it was wet and slippery inside, easier than any time before. The temperature was also higher. I didn't speak, just stared intently into her eyes in the darkness, thrusting in forcefully, one stroke after another. She soon cried out, her legs actively wrapping around my waist. The tips of her high heels occasionally brushed against my back, bringing a slight sting.
When I came, I deliberately shot deep inside. After finishing, I didn't withdraw immediately. Instead, in the still-connected position, I reached to touch her feet, slowly took off those high heels that had been played with by men and that I had just stepped on the bed, and put them one by one into my mouth.
The heel still carries a distinct fishy smell.
Since that day, things completely slid toward the edge of losing control.
I no longer just secretly followed them. Once, I even deliberately booked a room opposite their hourly love hotel during their date and recorded the entire process with a micro camera. In the video, the man made her kneel before him wearing stockings and use her feet to give him a footjob. Her technique had clearly improved a lot—her toes nimbly gripping the shaft, moving up and down, her soles occasionally brushing the tip, the force and rhythm just right. The man was very pleased, praising her in a low voice:
"Was it your husband who taught you? Or were you born knowing how to use your feet so well?"
She answered, blushing:
"He... he likes me like this."
“Then from now on, the number of times you serve me with your feet has to be more than the times you serve him. Did you hear me?”
“I heard...”
I watched the entire video alone in the opposite room and came twice. The second time I came, I imagined myself as that man, imagined her stocking-clad feet enveloping me, imagined her agreeing to all my demands in that shy, submissive tone.
In reality, we communicate less and less.
She seemed to have noticed something, but asked nothing. I also stopped pretending. Sometimes in the middle of making love, I would suddenly stop, stare into her eyes and ask:
"Did he fuck you today?"
She would usually remain silent for a few seconds, then nod gently, or say 'yes' in a voice almost too quiet to hear.
“Did you cum inside?”
“...Mm.”
“Did you wash it?”
“No. He said he’d wait for you...”
At such times, I often fuck her even harder, until she cries and begs for mercy, until her stockings are torn by me, until her high heels fall to the floor with a dull thud. After cumming, I lift her legs high, watching things that don't belong to me mix with mine, slowly flowing out of her body, then repeatedly push them back in with my fingers.
Once she finally couldn't take it anymore and asked me with a tearful voice in the afterglow of her orgasm:
"You... do you already know everything?"
I didn't answer, just lowered my head, took her still stocking-clad toes into my mouth, and sucked hard.
She stopped asking.
Autumn arrived in the blink of an eye. The leaves on Luyun Mountain began to turn yellow, and the weeds at the entrance of the air-raid shelter grew much taller. The frequency of their meetings, however, did not decrease. The man seemed addicted to the idea of 'letting me fuck the place he just fucked,' deliberately ejaculating inside each time and then giving her detailed instructions on what to do afterward.
And I have also completely accepted my new identity.
I was no longer angry, no longer conflicted. Whenever she returned home with traces of him, I would perform a sort of sacred ritual: first check if her stockings were torn, if there were any marks left on her high heels' heels, how much warmth from another man remained inside her body, and then give her all of myself.
Sometimes I would make her maintain the position she had just been played in—legs wide apart, wearing high heels, stockings pulled down to her knees—and then enter from behind. Sometimes I would have her give me a footjob, demanding she must use 'the way she served him.' Each time, she would blush and comply, the strength of her toes, the temperature of her soles, even the rhythm of her panting, exactly matching what I saw in the videos.
The most absurd time was the day right after her period ended.
The man seemed particularly excited, pressing her against the stone wall of the air-raid shelter and doing it twice, both times finishing inside. She was unsteady on her feet when she walked home. I had her lie face down on the bed, and I watched from behind as that turbid fluid slowly seeped out. I didn't enter immediately; instead, I first used my fingers to scoop it out, smeared it on the soles of her feet, between her toes, on her heels, and then licked it off bit by bit.
She buried her face in the pillow, her shoulders trembling slightly, but she never told me to stop.
“Does it feel good?” I asked.
Her reply was as faint as a mosquito's hum:
“...Feels good.”
"More comfortable than when he fucks you, or not as good?"
After a long silence, she finally said:
"It's different... you... you know I've been used by someone else, and you still treat me like this, I... I seem to be even more..."
She didn't finish speaking. I had already hardened again, aiming at that still slightly open entrance, and squeezed in inch by inch.
That night, we did it three times. Each time, I would spread her legs wide before coming, making her watch how she swallowed me, watching how the things belonging to different men were stirred, mixed, and then refilled by me again and again inside her body.
By the last time he came, she couldn't even make a sound anymore, only her body spasming unconsciously. I lay on top of her, lips against her ear, saying in an almost inaudible voice:
"From now on, every time he fucks you, you have to come back like this. Wearing the stockings and shoes he played with, carrying the stuff he ejaculated inside you. Then let me fuck you again. Did you hear me?"
She closed her eyes and nodded gently.
"Talk."
“...I heard it.”
“Repeat that.”
"He... every time he fucks me, I have to come back wearing the stockings and shoes he played with me in, carrying what he came inside me with... so you can fuck me again."
I kissed the corner of her eye with satisfaction, where physiological tears had already formed.
Outside the window, the autumn night wind blows from the direction of Mount Luyun, carrying a distant and faint scent of grass and trees.
I know some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
And we, have completely walked into it.
Since then, this twisted yet unusually tacit triangular relationship became the most secret daily routine in our marriage. She continued to date that man, continued to wear stockings and high heels to meet him as he required, and continued to bring home her body after it had been used, unchanged. And I became the final “receiver” and “cleaner” — using my own desire to repeatedly cover, mix, and then re-mark those traces that had never belonged to me.
Sometimes I would also reflect on whether I had gone mad. But whenever the night was deep and quiet, and she took the initiative to extend those stockings-clad feet—which had been bitten, licked, and stepped on by another man—to my mouth, all reflection would be completely drowned out by more primal excitement.
I took her toes into my mouth, my tongue curling around them—the taste was still complex: the nylon scent of stockings, her own foot sweat, the residual saliva and semen left by that man, and what I had just shot inside and was now leaking out.
All the scents mixed together, becoming an addiction I could never quit again.
And the story was still continuing.
The air-raid shelter in Luyun Mountain is still there.
Those black high heels studded with rhinestones are still there.
The flesh-colored stockings, repeatedly worn, washed, and worn again, were still there.
As for the three of us, we had long since, without realizing it, turned the initial accident into a long game of voluntary downfall.
Some memories, once etched into the body, can never be erased.
Some pleasures, once they taste forbidden, can never return to their former blandness. And I no longer want to go back.
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