My husband and I have been together for exactly five years.
He is thirty-two, and I am twenty-nine. We bought a house, and our incomes were both pretty good. I worked as a manager at a clothing company, while he had started a small trading company of his own. Life was simple but steady; we would occasionally work out and play ball together, and after coming home I would cook him a meal he liked, then sleep in each other's arms at night. I once thought that kind of life would go on forever.
My husband is handsome and has always maintained a good figure. Standing 1.8 meters tall, although I've fed him well and he's become slightly fuller than before, his chest muscles are thicker, and his buttocks have a round, powerful curve. He has transformed from a delicate youth into a mature and charming man. His member is something I can't get enough of—measuring a full 20 centimeters in length and 6 centimeters in diameter, thick and robust. Every time he enters me, it brings me both satisfaction and dependence.
Thinking back to how we met, I still feel lucky to this day. That year, I had just come out of a relationship where I was deceived. With my superior looks and figure, I was somewhat famous in certain circles and was even named one of the Four Young Masters of the provincial capital. Back then, I was 186 cm tall but only 62 kg, thin yet well-defined. I had many pursuers; some were willing to use money to get close, but I wasn't short of money. I was flirtatious but never vulgar. I was just afraid of loneliness, and unknowingly, I had brief flings with quite a few people.
Until I met him.
The feeling of love at first sight came on fiercely, yet I did not dare believe it easily. He also had feelings for me, but he always had reservations. Two months later, during a drinking session, we finally opened our hearts, pouring out the hurt of the past and our hidden desires, and only then did we truly accept each other and begin living together.
I have completely let go of the absurdities of the past. I just want to live a stable life with him.
However, things changed a few days ago.
There had been signs starting a month ago. At the end of the year the company was especially busy, with promotions, next year's plans, communication with headquarters, and several stores also having problems; I worked overtime until very late every day. A few times when he wanted to get close to me, I pushed him away with fatigue. I comforted myself that once this busy period was over, everything would be fine. But when I truly finished being busy and wanted to be intimate with him, I felt that he was somewhat distracted. I didn't pay much attention to it until yesterday.
I was supposed to return on Saturday, but the client changed the schedule last minute, so I came back early on Friday. Wanting to give him a surprise, I didn't tell him in advance. I got off the plane at 8:30 PM and took a taxi directly home. In the car, however, I saw him walking on a street we almost never go to, talking on the phone. The environment there was messy, and my heart tightened. I quietly got out of the car and followed him.
He walked into a narrow alley. After I followed him in, his figure disappeared. I made a round and found that inside, besides a little convenience store, there was only a small bathhouse. After hesitating for a moment, I still went in.
I paid twenty yuan and got the key. The place was simply decorated, but fairly spacious. There was only a men's bath, and at a glance it was obvious it was a gay-oriented venue. While changing clothes, many gazes fell on me, both young and old, but none made my heart move. I wrapped myself tightly in a bath towel, took off my underwear, and went inside.
Upon entering, there are two soaking pools, one large and one small, equipped with massage beds and wooden buckets. Against the wall are two rows of shower stalls, and further inside is a sauna room, with a lounge area on the side. My husband is severely nearsighted; with the steam billowing and the noisy crowd here, it's hard for him to notice me. I soak in the small pool near the entrance and observe inward, quickly spotting him in the shower area.
He was in the same shower room with a slender young man, touching each other. Several people leaned in to watch, but they paid no mind. The young man was stroking and rubbing his thick, long thing, while his hands roamed over the other man's body; one finger even went into the rear passage. Very soon the young man squatted down and took in the monstrous thing I knew all too well. Her husband showed an intoxicated expression, his brows slightly relaxed, with a satisfied curve at the corners of his mouth.
I was so angry I thought my lungs would explode.
At that moment, someone gently touched my calf. I turned and saw a face that almost made me lose my senses instantly—a Caucasian man who looked remarkably like Tom Cruise. He was tall and slender with just the right amount of muscle, his lines smooth, and about the same height as me. With brown hair and thick body hair that didn't appear vulgar, he gave me a charming smile.
“May I sit here?” His Chinese was unexpectedly fluent.
“Of course you can.” I heard myself answer like this.
Such a handsome man is indeed rare. My heartbeat quickened involuntarily. We chatted casually for a bit, and his hand soon naturally landed on my thigh, gently caressing in exploration. I should have refused immediately, but my mind was in turmoil because of everything happening in the adjacent shower stall.
I looked back. My husband had already begun getting into the main event. The young man was bent over, leaning against the wall, while he thrust deeply from behind. More onlookers gathered, and some even reached out to touch his body, his buttocks, and that thing thrusting powerfully in and out. He didn't refuse; instead, under everyone's gaze, he thrust even harder. The sounds of wetness and flesh colliding mixed with the steam, clearly audible.
Seeing it with your own eyes is completely different from imagining it.
Heartache cuts through me like a blunt knife. Five years of feelings, the house we bought together, the future we planned—all seem absurd now. I should rush over and separate them, confront him, end it all. But my body feels nailed to the spot. Anger, disappointment, humiliation, and a strange excitement stirred by the public scene before me—which I even loathe myself for feeling—all churn together, rendering me immobile.
The white man's hand had already moved up along the inside of my thigh. His fingertips carried the temperature of the hot water, the pressure neither light nor heavy, with a clear invitation. I did not push him away. My gaze remained locked on the direction of the shower, watching my husband's hips thrust against that young man's buttocks again and again, watching his profile as he threw his head back panting—that was an expression I had seen countless times at the peak of passion, now given to someone else.
“Are you watching them?” The white man’s voice was very close, carrying a hint of amusement. “This is very common here. Is this your first time here?”
I nodded reluctantly.
He came a little closer, his lips almost touching my ear: “That person... do you know them?”
I didn't answer. But he seemed to see through something, his fingers bolder as they probed toward my already slightly aroused desire. The touch through the towel made my body tremble. The hot water had turned my skin red, but my heartbeat was even more chaotic than before.
The movements in the shower became more and more intense. The husband gripped the young man's waist with both hands, thrusting forward forcefully, each stroke deep and heavy. The young man let out suppressed groans. Some of the onlookers began to touch themselves, while others just watched quietly. The husband seemed to enjoy being watched, increasing the amplitude of his thrusts. The sound of his scrotum slapping against the other's buttocks was clearly audible.
My eyes are sore, but not a single tear can fall.
The white man's hand had truly grasped me. His palm was scorching hot, his technique skilled, the rhythm of his up-and-down strokes just right. I should have refused, but I lost the strength to resist because of the scene opposite me. Anger numbed me, yet my body was terrifyingly honest—it gradually hardened in another's hand, the tip even secreting a clear fluid.
“Relax.” He said quietly, “No one here will judge anyone.”
I closed my eyes, then opened them. In the shower, my husband's movements suddenly sped up, clearly reaching a critical point. He let out a low roar, thrusting deeply into the young man, his body trembling violently. The ejaculation lasted several seconds before he slowly withdrew. White fluid mixed with hot water flowed down between the young man's legs. He leaned against the wall panting; the young man turned around, and they exchanged a brief kiss.
The onlookers gradually dispersed. My husband seemed unsatisfied and whispered a few more words to the young man before heading towards the sauna room.
I felt as if my entire being had been drained.
The white man did not stop. He moved closer, his other arm wrapping around my waist, gently lifting me out of the pool. The towel slipped off, my naked body exposed in the steam. His gaze lingered on me for a moment, filled with appreciation and desire.
"Come with me." His voice was low. "The rest room is quieter."
I should have refused. I should have gone to find my husband, confronted him face to face, or simply left this city. But my legs followed him instead. As if pushed by anger, or pulled by a self-destructive impulse.
The light in the resting room was even dimmer, with only a few faint wall lamps casting a yellow glow. Several simple beds were lined up against the wall, and some people were already quietly making love. He took me to the innermost empty bed and pulled shut the half-drawn curtain from behind.
No unnecessary foreplay. He directly pressed me onto the bed and leaned down to kiss me. His lips were burning hot, carrying the scent of smoke and male hormones. I didn't respond, but I didn't push him away either. His hands roamed over my body, from my chest muscles to my abdomen, then to my fully erect desire. He grasped it, his thumb brushing over the tip, and I couldn't help but let out a soft moan.
“You’re very beautiful.” He said it in Chinese, but his accent gave the sentence a slightly more exotic feel. “More beautiful than everyone inside.”
I grabbed his wrist, wanting to say something, but in the end, I just tightened my grip. He leaned down and took me into his mouth. The warm oral cavity enveloped me, his tongue nimbly swirling around the shaft. The pleasure came urgently and intensely, mixed with everything I had just seen, making me almost lose control instantly. I reached out and grabbed his hair, not knowing whether I wanted to push him away or press him deeper.
His movements were focused and highly skilled. From time to time he took me deep into his throat, then slowly withdrew, his tongue scraping across every inch of sensitive skin. My breathing grew more and more chaotic, and my waist involuntarily pushed upward. Just as I was about to reach the peak, he suddenly stopped, lifted his head, his eyes burning hot.
"I want you," he said.
I looked at him, my mind filled with images of my husband thrusting in the shower. Anger surged up again, almost burning away all reason. I nodded.
He made me turn over and kneel on the bed. I heard the sound of lubricant, and then felt the scorching tip pressing at my entrance. He went in very slowly, but very firmly. The feeling of being filled made me clench my teeth. Pain and pleasure intertwined, and I buried my face in the pillow, letting out stifled muffled moans.
He started moving. At first it was a slow, deep entry, each time pushing all the way inside before almost completely withdrawing. Once she adapted, the pace gradually quickened. The sound of flesh colliding echoed in the narrow space, mixed with our heavy breathing. His hand gripped my waist with such force it felt like he wanted to pin me to the bed.
I am forced to endure all of this. Yet, my mind keeps flashing with my husband's face—the look of ecstasy on his face, the tense muscles as he thrusts, the slightly trembling body as he ejaculates. These images make me both painful and strangely excited. I actively lean back to accommodate him, letting him go deeper.
He murmured something in English, sounding like praise. The thrusting grew heavier and heavier, the sensation of the sack slapping against my buttocks clear and humiliating. I reached out and stroked the head myself, the pleasure of being hit from both front and back bringing me to the edge very quickly.
He suddenly sped up, and after more than ten consecutive deep, heavy thrusts, he pressed down over her body and ejaculated into the deepest place. As the scorching liquid poured in, I also released at the same time. Semen sprayed onto the bedsheet, and my body convulsed violently.
He didn’t withdraw immediately, but while still connected, held me from behind and kissed the back of my neck while panting.
After a long while, he slowly withdrew. I lay on my side, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, my mind completely blank.
Faint noises from other people came from outside the curtain. The heat and the scent of lust mixed together, thick and inseparable.
I don't know where my husband is now. Is he still in the sauna, looking for the next target, or already preparing to go home, waiting for me as usual to 'return from a business trip'?
I only know that some things have already shattered.
And in this bathroom filled with desire and secrets, I personally pressed another fragment into the crack.
The white man sat on the edge of the bed, lit a cigarette, and handed it to me. I took it but did not smoke. The smoke rose slowly under the dim yellow light.
"You look very sad." he observed and said to me.
“A little.”
"Because of the person you saw just now?"
I didn't deny it.
After a while of silence, he suddenly reached out and touched my face: “There are many people here, all carrying secrets. Some go home and continue being good husbands and good wives; some people... never go back at all.”
I looked at him and suddenly asked, 'What about you?'
He smiled, and there was something in that smile that was hard to describe: “I’m just passing by. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He snuffed out the cigarette and leaned closer to me again. “The night is still long. Do you want to continue, or... do you want to be alone for a while?”
I should have chosen the latter. Reason told me I should immediately put on my clothes, leave this place, go home, and face what needed to be faced. But my body still retained the afterglow from earlier, and my heart felt terribly empty.
In the end, I grabbed his hand and pressed it against my reawakened desire.
"Continue," I said.
This time, we switched to a face-to-face position. He looked into my eyes as he entered, his movements much gentler than before. I wrapped my legs around his waist, actively meeting him. Each deep thrust felt like confirming something—confirming I was still alive, confirming the pain was real, confirming that after betrayal, the body could still feel pleasure.
When he kissed me, I did not close my eyes. The light from the ceiling lamp made my vision dizzy. I don’t know how long had passed when he sped up again and let out a low roar as he came. I didn’t reach climax at the same time; I was just held by him, feeling the throbbing inside my body.
After finishing, he didn't rush to leave. Instead, he lay on his side, one leg still draped over me. His fingers unconsciously traced circles on my chest.
“What’s your name?” he suddenly asked.
I hesitated for a moment and gave a fake name.
He nodded and also said an English name that was clearly an alias.
We fell silent again for a while. The sounds outside gradually lessened; it was probably already past midnight.
"I should go." I finally said.
He didn’t try to keep me, only watched as I put on my clothes. Before leaving, he suddenly said, “If you come again in the future, maybe we’ll meet again.”
I didn't answer, just nodded, pulled open the curtain, and walked out.
There weren't many people left in the soaking pool. I scanned the area but didn't see my husband. He had probably already left. I returned to the changing room, took a quick shower, changed my clothes, and walked out onto the street.
The night wind was a bit chilly. I stood at the mouth of the alley, looking up at the sky fragmented by the buildings.
The phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from my husband:
“Are you home? I miss you.”
I stared at that line of text for a long time, finally only replied with one word:
“Mm.”
On the way home by taxi, I kept leaning against the window. The driver didn't speak, only occasionally glancing at me in the rearview mirror. Arriving at the complex, I went upstairs and opened the door. The living room light was on, and he was sitting on the sofa. When he saw me, his eyes lit up, and he immediately stood up.
“Back so early? Why didn’t you say anything? I’ll go pick you up.”
He had a fresh post-bath smell on him, as if he had deliberately washed up. Looking at his familiar face, at those eyes that had once been filled with desire only for me, I suddenly felt a little unfamiliar.
“Reschedule it temporarily.” I said, “I’m tired, going to sleep first.”
He seemed to want to say something, but in the end he only walked over and hugged me. The embrace was still the same temperature, the same strength. I did not hug back, only gently patted his back.
I suffered from insomnia at night.
He slept beside me, breathing evenly. I lay with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling, while the scenes from the bathroom replayed over and over in my mind—him entering another person’s body in full view of everyone, the taut muscles when he ejaculated, the kiss he exchanged with that young man afterward. Then came the face of the white man, his hand, and the low gasps when he entered me.
Anger, heartache, a sense of betrayal, and a deeper self-loathing churned into a knot in my chest.
The next morning, he made breakfast as usual. We sat facing each other, eating the eggs and toast he fried. He talked about some things at the company and asked if my business trip went smoothly. I answered one by one, my voice as calm as if discussing someone else's affairs.
After the meal, he went to the company, I took leave. Sitting alone in the empty house, I thought through the whole thing from beginning to end.
The five-year relationship was not fake. His kindness, his thoughtfulness, everything we went through together, all truly existed. But the scene in the bathroom was just as real.
I don't know if I can trust him unreservedly like before. Even more, I don't know where the choice I made in anger last night will push our relationship.
When he came back in the evening, he brought some desserts I liked. We ate and watched TV as usual, and at night we even kissed. When his hand reached into my pajamas, I didn’t refuse. He was very gentle when he entered me, as if trying to make up for something. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t stop myself from remembering the touch of another person.
After ejaculation, he held me and whispered in my ear: 'Have you been too busy lately? I'll be more considerate of you from now on.'
I let out an "Mmm," burying my face in his chest.
In the darkness, I knew clearly—some cracks, once they appear, are difficult to fully heal. And I myself, in that bathroom, had personally stuffed new things into those cracks.
Life must go on.
Work, social engagements, occasional intimacy—on the surface, everything seems normal. But whenever the night is deep and quiet, I remember the steamy shower room, the image of him thrusting inside a stranger's body, and the complex pleasure of being filled by another man.
Sometimes I would deliberately work overtime until very late, and by the time I got home, he was already asleep. Sometimes, on nights when he was away on business, I would return alone to that alley, hesitating for a long time at the bathroom door, ultimately still not going in.
Until one day, I received another membership text from that bathhouse—they occasionally send activity notifications. I stared at the screen, my finger hovering between 'delete' and 'open' for a long time.
In the end, I clicked on it.
The message mentioned the weekend theme night. Looking at those suggestive words, my heart suddenly grew calm.
Perhaps some desires, once ignited, can never be completely extinguished.
And the story between him and me is far from over.
Only from then on, trust became something that needed careful maintenance, and suspicion and secrets mixed into the love. We still lived under the same roof, shared the same bed, yet each of us kept another door for ourselves in our hearts.
Behind the door were heat, bodies, and those nights that couldn't be spoken aloud.
I don't know how long such days can last.
All I know is that when he held me from behind again and said in my ear, “I want you,” I would still respond.
It’s just that this time, with my eyes closed, two images appear in my mind—one is him, and the other is the smiling white man in the bathroom.
And I, could no longer tell which one made my heart ache more, or which one made me more honest.
After that night, life superficially returned to calm.
As usual he got up early to prepare breakfast, and I would help straighten his tie before he left. Affairs at the company remained busy, and after coming home at night we would occasionally watch a movie together before showering separately and going to bed. Physical intimacy had not stopped. Whenever he pressed close from behind and, with his lips against my ear, whispered “I want you,” I would still turn around to return his kiss, actively part my legs, and accept his familiar دخول.
But every time I closed my eyes, the image would split into two layers.
There was another layer: the face now pressed against me, brows slightly furrowed, breathing growing heavier, and the deeper and deeper thrusting below. Yet another layer was the smiling gaze of that white man in the bathroom, and the slightly awkward but extraordinarily hot sensation as he entered. The two memories tangled together, making the pleasure come even sharper and more chaotically.
At the moment of ejaculation, I often couldn't tell who I was responding to.
Once after finishing, he didn't withdraw immediately but held me tightly from behind while still connected, resting his chin on my shoulder. With his warm breath brushing against my skin, he suddenly asked: 'Have you been troubled by something lately?'
My body stiffened almost imperceptibly, then relaxed as I reached back and gently patted his arm: 'Work stuff. It's always like this at year-end.'
He gave an “mm” and did not ask further. It was a long time before he slowly pulled out and went to the bathroom to wash up. When the sound of water started, I lay alone on the messy sheets, staring at the ceiling, but I knew clearly in my heart—some cracks, once they appear, can never be fully filled by everyday intimacy again.
Over the weekend, he went on a business trip to another city.
In the empty room, I sat alone until very late. My phone screen lit up and dimmed, dimmed and lit up. In the end, I opened the membership page for that bathhouse. The promotional image for the theme night was still up, featuring suggestive lighting and blurred body outlines. I stared at it for a long time, then finally closed the page and fell asleep on the sofa.
The dream was filled with the sound of heat and the collision of bodies.
When he returned on Monday, he brought local specialties. We had dinner as usual, and he enthusiastically talked about interesting things he encountered during his business trip. I listened, occasionally responding, but my heart always felt separated by a thin mist. When he approached again at night, I didn't refuse. This time, I actively straddled him, propped my hands on his chest, and controlled the rhythm of rising and falling myself. He looked up at me, his eyes holding obvious surprise and infatuation.
"So proactive today." he said, panting, both hands gripping my waist.
I did not answer; I simply lowered my head and kissed him, using the action to stifle emotions that might overflow. The physical pleasure was real and intense, yet some corner of my heart remained clear, almost cruel—I was confirming in this way that he still belonged to me, while also punishing myself for my surrender in the bathroom that day.
The climax came swiftly and intensely. I lay limp on top of him, my forehead pressed against his collarbone, listening to our gradually calming heartbeats. In the darkness, his fingers gently combed through my hair, his voice low and hoarse: 'No matter what happens, we'll still be together, right?'
I closed my eyes and softly hummed 'Mm-hmm.'
But at that moment I clearly knew that some answers were no longer a simple yes or no. Trust had been diluted, while desire had become even more complicated. The warmth he left inside my body, and the memory left by that strange man in the bathroom, were like two parallel rivers that quietly merged at night and then flowed separately during the day.
The next few days, I began to consciously observe him.
Whether the time he got home from work was the same as usual, whether there was an unfamiliar message notification sound on his phone, whether he would stay a little longer in the bathroom when showering. These tiny suspicions were like small thorns, lodged in the cracks of everyday life, not fatal, yet persistent. Once he took a call and walked out onto the balcony, speaking in a very low voice. I stood in the kitchen listening to the muffled tone, the kitchen knife in my hand suspended in midair. Only after the call ended and he came in to hug me from behind did I continue cutting vegetables.
"Who hit me?" I tried to make my tone sound casual.
“A client.” He kissed the side of my neck, “It was a bit urgent, but it’s already been handled.”
I nodded and didn't ask further.
In the dead of night, I occasionally wake up and look at his sleeping profile. Five years of feelings are not fake. His goodness, his thoughtfulness, our excitement when buying a house together, our seriousness when planning the future—all are real. But the scene in the bathroom is equally real. The public lovemaking, the thrill of being watched, the completely indulgent expression at the moment of ejaculation—those things that belonged to me were shared with others in that moment.
And I myself, caught between anger and desire, gave my body to another person.
Sometimes I would wonder, if I hadn't come back early that day, could everything have continued to maintain its superficial intactness? If I had barged into the shower and confronted her face-to-face, would the outcome have been different? But these questions have no answers. The reality is, we had both crossed a certain line, yet we both chose to pretend the line didn't exist.
Another Friday night, he came home early and made the dishes I love most. At the dinner table he drank a little, his gaze brighter than usual. After cleaning up the kitchen, he directly pressed me onto the sofa and kissed me, his movements more urgent than usual. I responded, wrapping my arms around his neck, but the moment he entered me, my body uncontrollably remembered the touch of another person.
The pleasure was still intense, even sharper because of the inner turmoil. I bit his shoulder, letting out suppressed sounds as I climaxed. He panted heavily, speeding up his final thrusts. After releasing everything inside me, his whole body sank down heavily, his breathing gradually steadying.
"I love you," he said in my ear, his voice carrying post-sex languor and seriousness.
I stared at the ceiling with my eyes open, and after several seconds, I softly replied, 'Me too.'
This sentence is true. The love hasn't disappeared, it's just become heavy, mixed with suspicion, guilt, and an indescribable complicity in each other's bodily secrets. We still sleep in the same bed, share the same life, but we've both left another door open in our hearts.
Behind the door was the steamy bathroom, unfamiliar bodies, and those nights that couldn't be easily spoken aloud.
I don't know how long this balance can last. I only know that when he approaches from behind again, repeating 'I want you' in my ear, I will still turn around and respond with my body.
And with my eyes closed, two images persistently coexisted side by side in my mind—one of him, and one of that smiling Caucasian man.
Heartache and honesty have become an inextricable knot.
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