After my wife and I got married, life wasn't exactly wealthy, but it was stable. I work as a clerk in a small company, and she works rotating shifts at a textile factory on the outskirts of the city. Our combined salaries are barely enough to support our small family.
My wife has an ordinary face but fair skin, and an excellent figure. Her breasts aren't large, but she has a slim waist, round hips, and long, straight legs. What I'm most obsessed with are her feet—fair and tender, with high arches and rounded toes. Wearing flesh-colored stockings and high heels, they can practically make me hard. I have a severe foot fetish, which she knows well. Every time we have sex, I have her wear stockings and high heels; sometimes I even put the heels in my mouth or have her give me a footjob with her stockinged feet. Though she doesn't reject it, she's not particularly enthusiastic either. Regarding our sex life, she's always been the 'accommodating type'—if you want it, she gives it; if you don't mention it, she won't initiate.
Two years passed uneventfully like this.
On a Sunday in the summer of 2008. We had gone a bit late the night before, and I slept until noon before waking up. The bed was already empty, and by the pillow there was a note:
“Husband, something came up at the factory temporarily, 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. There weren't many friends online on QQ. I casually clicked on her QQ, wanting to help her keep it online. I tried the password several times but it was wrong. Just as I was about to give up, I suddenly remembered that I had helped her set up her security questions. Relying on memory, I retrieved the password and logged in.
An avatar is flashing.
I clicked on it; there were only three words:
“Hurry up and come!”
My heart skipped a beat. I opened the chat log and scrolled up.
“Put on the lingerie, stockings, and high heels you wore when you had sex with your husband yesterday, go downstairs and wait for me. We’re going to have some fun at 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 even stronger—a burning sensation of shame and excitement surged from my lower abdomen straight to my head. He actually knew about our attire last night. He actually had her wear the exact same clothes she wore when we made love 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.
On the way, my mind was full of images: her wearing flesh-colored thigh-high stockings and black high heels, crouching on the ground giving another man oral sex; her pinned down on a sleeping bag by that man with her legs spread wide; the sounds she made when someone else was inside her... These fantasies not only failed to make me angry enough to rush up and start a fight, they instead made me painfully hard. I even felt a little impatient to see it with my own eyes.
The car stopped halfway up the mountain. 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 at home with a bare face, was now squatting on the concrete floor. Her upper body only had a black embroidered bra, and her lower body wore a pair of similarly 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 performing oral sex on a strange man.
The man was in his early thirties, slightly thin, with an ordinary appearance. He pressed one hand against the back of her head while the other had already slipped into her bra to knead.
“Slut, take off the bra and hang it higher.”
As she was told, she stood up, undid her bra, and hung it on a branch beside her. But the man was still not satisfied:
“Hang it higher. Turn the inside side outward, let me clearly see the position of your nipple.”
Her face was terribly red, but she still did it. Standing on tiptoe, she hung the bra higher, the side that usually touches the 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 down again to continue 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—where is any of that still his exclusive property? Haha... I'll have more fun with you than he did. How about it, slut, will you do it or not?"
She nodded, mumbling an indistinct response.
I hid behind the bushes, fingers trembling as I continued taking photos. Shame surged up like a tide, yet was drowned by even stronger excitement. I was actually watching my 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. Spread out the sleeping bag."
As if she already knew the procedure, she took out a sleeping bag from the side and spread it out on the concrete floor. Then she slipped off her underwear herself, handed it to the man, and obediently lay down on it. The man brought the underwear close to his nose and took a deep inhale, smiling:
“Slut is a slut; even the juice they leak is especially slutty. Hug your legs with both hands.”
She lifted her legs. This position completely exposed her private parts. Her feet, clad in stockings and high heels, dangled lightly in the air. The man didn't insert immediately but squatted down to stare at her lower body, still holding her damp panties in his hand:
“Did your husband fuck you and then wash you afterward yesterday?”
“Washed...” Her voice was soft and shy, with obvious nervousness.
“After I fuck you, you’re not allowed to wash when you go back. You have to wait until your husband fucks you once more before you can wash. Let him fuck the place I fucked, understand?”
“Got it…”
The man inserted two fingers and began thrusting rapidly. She soon let out suppressed moans. The man sped up, and even her arms, wrapped around her legs, grew weak. The man suddenly growled low:
“Hold tight!”
She immediately tightened her legs forcefully. 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, pulled a condom from his pocket, and rolled 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 by the vamp 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 her legs opened wider. The man made her hold the high heel still stuck inside her herself, then stood up and admired:
“What a generous wife. Wearing sexy stockings lying here, one foot in high heels, while the other heel is stuck in her own pussy. So slutty.”
After a while, he finally pulled the heel out, put her shoe back on (the condom was not removed), then lifted her legs, took out his own thing, and thrust it all the way in, aiming at the entrance.
I saw with my own eyes that penis, which didn't 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, he pressed his whole body onto her, his hips thrusting rapidly a dozen times, then completely collapsing motionless.
After a long while, he finally got up. He peeled off the torn stockings from her feet, casually hung them on a branch, had her put on the rest of her clothes, and 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 over to the concrete area and picked up the stockings still hanging on the branch. The stockings were torn, with clear bite marks and an unknown fluid residue. 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 said a few words casually 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 began to “accidentally” open her QQ more frequently.
That afternoon in the Luyunshan air-raid shelter became the most secretive and 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.
After coming back that afternoon, the air in the house had completely changed.
On the surface, nothing happened. She continued to work 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 adorned with crystals, hold her feet to kiss, bite, and gently rub her entrance with the heels. She also cooperated as always, emitting soft moans, lying quietly after I ejaculated inside.
But I know things are different now.
Every time I enter her body, the shadow of that man flashes through my mind—how he held her high-heeled foot and fucked her hard, how he put the heel into 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:
“After I fuck you, you’re not allowed to wash when you go back. You have to wait until your husband fucks you once more before you can wash.”
That night, she really didn't shower right away. When I pretended to wake up and asked her about the factory, she just answered vaguely, 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 already memorized the password. Most of the time, the chat history is empty, occasionally there are a few unimportant messages. But every few days, that avatar would flash again.
“Are you free tonight?”
"Still the same old place."
“Wear the black set. Change the stockings to new ones, and keep the same shoes.”
Once he even asked directly:
“Has your husband noticed anything lately? When he fucks you, has he said anything feels different inside you?”
She replied:
“No. He’s the same as before.”
I stared at that line of text, my heart beating so fast it felt like it would explode. She was actually discussing with that man how it felt when I fucked her. Shame burned my nerves like red-hot iron, but my lower body was painfully hard.
I started following more frequently.
It wasn’t every time they went to Luyun Mountain. Sometimes they changed places—a hourly room on the outskirts of the city, an abandoned warehouse by the river, and even once in the changing room of the factory where she worked the night shift. I learned how to hide farther away and use my phone’s zoom to film, learned how to rush in the moment they left and collect the stockings, underwear, and even the used tissues she had left behind.
The most overwhelming and exciting time for me was on a rainy night a month later.
That day, she said she had to work overtime at the factory and would return 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 still wore 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 revealing the color of her skin.
The man seemed particularly interested this time. He wasn't in a hurry to have sex; instead, he had her lean against the stone wall by the cave entrance, squatted down, and slowly licked her stockinged 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… a lot.”
“How does he like to play?”
“With your mouth... sometimes when sucking toes, you’ll put the heel... in there.”
The man laughed, his voice sounding especially clear in the rain:
“Then today let me try the places your husband has played with too.”
He told her to put one foot on his shoulder, then supported that already purple-hard thing himself, aimed it at the place where the heel had once entered, and slowly pushed in. She let out a soft, long moan, her fingers tightening on the stone wall beneath her. The man did not immediately go wild, but kept the deep-in position, reached out and took off the high heel on her other foot, and stuffed it into her mouth:
“Keep it in your mouth. Like you’re holding your husband’s thing in your mouth.”
She really took it in 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 slapping of flesh, and her muffled sobs blocked by the high heels blended together, becoming the most obscene symphony I heard that night.
I hid behind a tree, one hand braced against the trunk, the other quickly stroking myself. When I came, I almost lost my balance; semen splattered on the damp grass leaves, quickly washed away 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 climaxed, he did not pull out, but stayed buried deep inside, growling low as he poured everything in.
After finishing, he kept her in a legs-spread position, took out his phone, and took a few photos of her still slightly open, continuously overflowing with white浊的地方.
“Show it to your husband? Forget it, I’d better keep it for myself. Remember when you go back… this time you can wash, but before you wash, let your husband fuck you once more. I want him to taste the way I just came inside you.”
She softly 'mm'-ed, her voice tender and hoarse.
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 what had been hard for a long time.
I flipped over and pinned her down without turning on the light. In the darkness, I felt her legs still wearing stockings—she hadn't even taken them off. The stockings were already a bit wrinkled, and she was even still wearing those high heels. Clearly, she had followed the man's request and brought the 'post-fuck' state directly home.
When I entered her, I clearly felt it was wet and slippery inside, easier than any time before. It was also warmer. 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 slight stings.
When I came, I deliberately came deep inside. After finishing, I didn't withdraw immediately. Instead, still connected, I reached to touch her feet, slowly took off those high heels that had been played with by the man and that I had just stepped on the bed, and put them one by one into my mouth.
The shoe heels still carried a distinct fishy smell.
Since that day, things had completely slipped toward the edge of losing control.
I was no longer just secretly following them. Once, I even deliberately booked a room opposite their hourly love hotel during their date time and recorded the whole 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 was clearly much better than before—her toes nimbly gripping the shaft and stroking up and down, her soles occasionally brushing against the tip, the force and rhythm just right. The man was very pleased with her service, praising in a low voice:
“Did your husband teach you? Or are you just naturally so good with your feet?”
She answered, blushing:
“He... he likes me like this.”
“Then after that, the number of times you serve me with your feet must be more than the number of times you serve him. Do you hear me?”
“I heard it...”
I watched the entire video alone in the opposite room and came twice. The second time I came, I imagined myself as that man, picturing her stocking-clad feet wrapping around me, imagining her agreeing to all my demands in that shy, submissive tone.
In reality, however, we communicate less and less.
She seemed to sense something, but asked nothing. I stopped pretending to be clueless too. Sometimes, halfway through sex, I would suddenly stop and stare into her eyes and ask:
“Did he fuck you today?”
She usually remained silent for a few seconds, then nodded lightly, or said 'yes' in a voice almost inaudible.
“Did you shoot inside?”
“...mm.”
“Did you wash it?”
“No. He said he’d wait for you...”
At this moment, I often thrust into her more forcefully, 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 ejaculating, I lift her legs high, watching the things that don't belong to me mix with mine, slowly flowing out of her body, then repeatedly pushing them back in with my fingers.
Once she finally couldn't bear 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 didn’t ask anymore.
In the blink of an eye, autumn arrived. The leaves on Luyun Mountain began to turn yellow, and the weeds at the entrance of the air-raid shelter grew much taller. However, the frequency of their meetings did not decrease. The man seemed addicted to '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. Every time she came home carrying traces of him, I would perform a kind 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 make her maintain the position she was just played in—legs spread wide, wearing high heels, stockings pulled down to her knees—and then enter her from behind. Sometimes I have her give me a footjob, demanding she must use 'the same way she served him.' She blushes and complies every time, the strength of her toes, the temperature of her soles, even the rhythm of her gasps, exactly as I saw in the video.
The most absurd time was the day just 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. When she returned home, she walked somewhat unsteadily. I had her lie face down on the bed, and from behind, I watched the turbid fluid slowly seeping out. I didn't enter immediately; instead, I first used my fingers to scoop it out, smearing it on the soles of her feet, between her toes, and on her heels, then licking it off bit by bit.
She buried her face in the pillow, her shoulders trembling slightly, yet she never asked 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 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. I was already hard 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 press her legs wide open before coming, making her watch how she swallowed me in, watch how the things belonging to different men were churned, mixed, and then refilled by me again and again inside her body.
By the last time he ejaculated, 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, with his cum still inside you. Then let me fuck you again. Do you hear me?”
She closed her eyes and nodded lightly.
“Speak.”
“...I heard that.”
"Repeat it."
“He... every time he fucks me, I have to come back wearing the stockings and shoes he’s played with, carrying what he ejaculated inside me... 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 Luyun Mountain, carrying a distant, indistinct 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 hidden routine in our marriage. She kept dating that man, kept wearing stockings and high heels to meet him as he demanded, kept bringing her used body home intact. And I became the final “receiver” and “cleaner” — using my own desire to cover, mix, and then re-mark again and again the traces that were never mine to begin with.
Sometimes I also reflect on whether I've gone crazy. But whenever it's late at night and she actively extends her stocking-clad feet—the same ones that have been bitten, licked, and stepped on by another man—to my mouth, all reflection is 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 of the stockings, her own foot sweat, the residual saliva and semen left by that man, and the stuff I had just shot in and flowed back out.
All the scents mixed together became an addiction I could never quit.
And the story is still continuing.
The air-raid shelter at Luyun Mountain is still there.
Those black high heels studded with rhinestones were still there.
The flesh-colored stockings, repeatedly worn, washed, and worn again, were still there.
As for the three of us, we had long ago, unknowingly, turned the initial accident into a prolonged game of voluntary沉沦.
Some memories, once etched into the body, can never be erased.
Some pleasures, once they've tasted the forbidden, can never return to their former blandness. And I no longer want to go back.
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