My husband and I have been together for a full five years.
He was thirty-two, and I was twenty-nine. We bought a house, and both of us earned pretty good money. I was a manager at a clothing company, while he had started his own small trading company. Life was simple but steady; occasionally we worked out or played ball together, and after coming home I would cook him a dish he liked. At night we would hold each other and sleep. I once thought that kind of life would continue forever.
My husband is handsome and has always kept his figure well. Standing 1.8 meters tall, although I've made him slightly rounder than before, his chest muscles are thicker, and his buttocks have a rounded, powerful line. He has transformed from a delicate youth into a mature, charming man. His member is something I can't get enough of—a full 20 centimeters long and 6 centimeters in diameter, thick and sturdy. Every time it enters me, I feel both satisfied and dependent.
Thinking back to how we met, I still feel lucky. 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 the circle and had even been named one of the city's four top bachelors. At that time, I was 186 cm tall and only 62 kg, thin but with defined lines. There were many pursuers; some were willing to pay for closeness, but I wasn't short on money. I was flirtatious but never vulgar. I was just afraid of loneliness, and unknowingly had brief flings with many people.
Until I met him.
The feeling of love at first sight came on intensely, yet I didn’t dare believe it easily. He also had feelings for me, but was always guarded. Two months later, over a drinking session, we finally opened our hearts and spoke of the pains and secret desires of the past, truly accepted each other, and began 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.
It had been building for a month. At the end of the year, the company was especially busy: promotions, next year’s plans, communication with headquarters, and several store locations ran into problems. I worked overtime until very late every day. Several times, when he wanted to get close, I pushed him away with my fatigue. I comforted myself that once this stretch was over, everything would be fine. But when I finally finished being busy and wanted to be intimate with him, I felt that he seemed a little distracted. I didn’t pay much attention until yesterday.
I was supposed to return on Saturday, but the client changed plans, so I came back early on Friday. Wanting to surprise him, I didn't say anything in advance. I got off the plane at 8:30 PM and took a taxi home directly. In the car, I saw him walking on a street we almost never go to, talking on the phone. The area 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, apart from a small convenience store, there was only one small bathhouse. After hesitating for a moment, I still went in.
Paid twenty yuan and got the key. The place was simply decorated, but fairly spacious. There was only a men's bath, obviously a gay-oriented venue. While changing clothes, many eyes fell on me, both young and old, but none of them stirred me. I wrapped myself tightly in a towel, took off my underwear, and walked in.
Upon entering, there were two soaking pools—one large and one small—equipped with massage beds and wooden buckets. Against the wall were two rows of shower stalls, and further inside was a sauna room, with a lounge area on the side. My husband is severely nearsighted, and with the steam and noisy crowd here, it was hard for him to notice me. I soaked in the small pool near the entrance, observing inside, and quickly found him in the shower area.
He was touching and fondling a slim young man in the same shower room. Several people craned their necks to watch, but they paid them no mind. The young man gripped that thick, long thing of his and stroked it, while his hands roamed over the other man's body; one finger even slipped into the back passage. Soon the young man squatted down and took that huge thing I knew all too well into his mouth. My husband showed an intoxicated expression, his brows relaxing slightly, the corners of his mouth curved in satisfaction.
I was so angry my lungs were about to explode.
At that moment, someone gently touched my calf. I turned my head and saw a face that almost made me lose my senses instantly—a Caucasian man who looked remarkably like Tom Cruise. He had a slender yet perfectly muscled build, with smooth lines, and was about my height. He had brown hair, thick body hair that didn't appear vulgar, and was giving me a charming smile.
"May I sit here?" His Chinese was unexpectedly fluent.
“Of course.” I heard myself answer like that.
Such a handsome man is indeed rare; my heartbeat couldn't help but quicken. We casually chatted for a bit, and his hand soon naturally landed on my thigh, gently caressing in a tentative manner. I should have refused immediately, but my mind was in turmoil because of everything happening in the shower stall next to us.
I looked back. My husband had already gotten into the main act. The young man was bent over, leaning against the wall, as my husband thrust deeply into him from behind. More onlookers gathered, some even reaching 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 slapping mixed in the steamy air, clearly audible.
Seeing it with your own eyes is completely different from imagining it.
Heartache cut me like a blunt knife. Five years of feelings, the house we bought together, the future we planned—all seemed absurd at this moment. I should rush over to separate them, question him, end all this. But my body seemed nailed in place. Anger, disappointment, humiliation, and a strange excitement stimulated by the open scene before me—which I even despised myself for—all churned together, making me unable to move.
The white man's hand had already begun wandering up the inside of my thigh. His fingertips carried the temperature of the hot water, with a pressure that was neither light nor heavy, carrying 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 the side of his face 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, with a hint of laughter, “This is very common here. Is this your first time here?”
I nodded reluctantly.
He moved 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 more boldly exploring 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 more chaotic than before.
The movements in the shower room grew increasingly 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 simply watched quietly. The husband seemed to enjoy the feeling of being watched, increasing the amplitude of his thrusts. The sound of his scrotum slapping against the other's buttocks was clearly audible.
My eyes were sore, but not a single tear would 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 before 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 in a low voice, “No one here will judge anyone.”
I closed my eyes, then opened them again. In the shower, my husband's movements suddenly sped up, clearly reaching the critical point. He let out a low roar, pressed firmly into the deepest part of the young man, his body trembling violently. The ejaculation lasted several seconds before he slowly pulled out. Milky white mixed with hot water flowed down from 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 not fully satisfied yet, and after whispering a few words to the young man, he walked toward the sauna room.
I felt as if my entire being had been drained.
The white man did not stop. He moved closer, wrapping his other arm around my waist, gently lifting me out of the pool. The towel slipped off, exposing my naked body to the steam. His gaze lingered on me for a moment, filled with appreciation and desire.
“Come with me.” His voice was low. “The break 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. It felt like being pushed by anger, or dragged by a self-destructive impulse.
The lounge was even dimmer, with only a few dim wall lamps. Several simple beds were lined up against the wall, and some were already being quietly used by people. He took me to the empty bed at the very back and, with a backward motion, pulled down the half-drawn curtain.
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 cigarettes 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 in Chinese, but his accent made the sentence feel a little exotic, “More beautiful than everyone inside.”
I grabbed his wrist, wanting to say something, but in the end, I just tightened my fingers. He leaned down and took me into his mouth. The warm mouth enveloped me, his tongue nimbly swirling around the shaft. The pleasure came fast and fierce, 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.
He took me in with concentration and superb skill. From time to time he accepted me from the deepest part of 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, raised his head, his eyes blazing.
“I want you.” he said.
I looked at him, my mind filled with images of my husband thrusting in the shower. Anger surged again, almost burning away my reason. I nodded.
He told me to turn over and kneel on the bed. I heard the sound of lubricant, then felt the scorching tip press against my entrance. He entered very slowly, but very firmly. The feeling of being filled made me clench my teeth. Pain and pleasure intertwined; I buried my face in the pillow and let out a muffled groan.
He started moving. At first he went in slowly and deeply, each time pushing all the way to the very bottom, then withdrawing almost completely. After she got used to it, the pace gradually picked up. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed in the cramped space, mixed with our heavy breathing. His hand gripped my waist, the force so great it seemed as if he meant to pin me to the bed.
I was forced to endure all of this. Yet, my husband's face kept flashing before my eyes—his陶醉 expression, his tense muscles when thrusting hard, his slightly trembling body when cumming. These images made me both pained and strangely excited. I actively pushed back to let him go deeper.
He murmured something in English, sounding like praise. The thrusting grew heavier and heavier, the feel of his scrotum slapping against my ass clear and humiliating. I reached out and jerked my own shaft, and the pleasure of being attacked from front and back quickly drove me to the edge.
He suddenly sped up, and after more than ten consecutive deep, heavy thrusts, pressed himself down onto her and came deep inside. When the scalding liquid flooded in, I released at the same time. Semen sprayed onto the bedsheet, and my body convulsed violently.
He did not withdraw immediately, but instead held me from behind in the still-connected position, panting as he kissed the back of my neck.
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 others could be heard outside the curtain. The heat and the scent of lust mingled together, thick and suffocating.
I don't know where my husband is now. Is he still in the sauna room looking for the next target, or is he already preparing to go home, waiting for me to 'return from a business trip' as usual?
I only knew that some things were already broken.
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. Smoke slowly rose in the dim yellow light.
“You look very sad.” he observed, saying to me.
"A little."
“Because of the person we saw just now?”
I didn't deny it.
He was silent for a while, then suddenly reached out and touched my face: "There are many people here who come with secrets. Some go home and keep being good husbands and good wives; some people... never go back again."
I looked at him and suddenly asked, 'What about you?'
He smiled, with something hard to describe in his expression. “I’m just passing by. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“It’s not important.” He stubbed out the cigarette, moving close 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 to immediately put on my clothes, leave this place, and go home to face what needed to be faced. But my body still retained the afterglow of earlier, and my heart felt terribly empty.
Finally, 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 his thrusts. Each deep penetration felt like a confirmation—confirming that I was still alive, confirming that the pain was real, confirming that after betrayal, the body could still feel pleasure.
When he kissed me, I didn’t close my eyes. The ceiling light was so dazzling it made people dizzy. I don’t know how long passed before he sped up again, growling low as he came. I, however, didn’t reach climax along with him; I was only held in his arms, feeling the pulsing inside my body.
After finishing, he wasn't in a hurry to leave. Instead, he lay on his side, one leg still draped over me, his fingers unconsciously tracing circles on my chest.
“What’s your name?” he suddenly asked.
I hesitated for a moment and gave a fake name.
He nodded and gave an English name that was clearly an alias.
We were silent for a while longer. The sounds outside gradually lessened; it was probably late into the night.
“I should go.” I finally said.
He did not keep me there, only watched me put on my clothes. Before leaving, he suddenly said, 'If you come again in the future, maybe we'll meet once more.'
I didn't answer, just nodded, pulled back 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 clothes, and walked out onto the street.
The night wind was a little cold. I stood at the mouth of the alley, looked up at the sky, which was chopped into fragments by the buildings.
The phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from my husband:
“Have you gotten home? Miss you.”
I stared at that line of text for a long time, and in the end only replied with one word:
“Mm.”
On the taxi ride home, 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. He was sitting on the sofa, his eyes lighting up when he saw me, immediately standing up.
“Back so early? Why didn’t you say something? I would’ve gone to pick you up.”
He had a fresh post-bath scent on him, as if he had deliberately washed himself. I looked at his familiar face, at those eyes that had once been filled with desire only for me, and suddenly felt somewhat unfamiliar.
“Changed temporarily.” I said, “I’m tired. Going to sleep first.”
He seemed to want to say something, but in the end he only came over and hugged me. The embrace was still the same temperature, the same strength. I did not hug back, only gently patted his back.
At night I couldn’t sleep.
He was sleeping beside me, breathing evenly. I lay with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling, while the scenes in the bathroom played over and over in my mind — him entering another person’s body in full view of everyone, the muscles tensing when he came, the kiss he exchanged with that young man afterward. Then there was the white man’s face, his hand, the low panting when he entered me.
Anger, heartache, a sense of betrayal, and a deeper self-loathing churned together in my chest.
The next morning, he made breakfast as usual. We sat facing each other, eating the eggs and toast he fried. He chatted about some company matters, asked if my business trip went smoothly. I answered one by one, my voice as calm as if talking about someone else's affairs.
After the meal, he went to the company, and I took leave. Sitting alone in the empty house, I thought through the whole incident from start to finish.
A five-year relationship is not fake. His goodness, his thoughtfulness, every bit of what we went through together, all truly existed. But that scene in the bathroom was just as real.
I don't know if I can ever 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 dinner and watched TV as usual, and in the evening we even kissed. When his hand slipped into my pajamas, I did not refuse. He entered me very gently, as if making up for something. I closed my eyes, but I could not stop myself from thinking of another person's touch.
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 "Mm-hmm" and buried my face in his chest.
In the darkness, I clearly knew—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 seemed normal. But whenever the night was deep and quiet, I would remember the steamy shower, remember him thrusting inside a stranger's body, remember the complex pleasure of being filled by another man.
Sometimes I deliberately work overtime until late, and by the time I get home, he is already asleep. Sometimes on nights when he is away on business, I return alone to that alley, hesitating for a long time at the bathroom door, ultimately not going in.
Until one day, I received another membership text message from that bathhouse—they occasionally send some activity notifications. I stared at the screen, my finger hovering between 'Delete' and 'Open' for a long time.
Finally, I clicked on it.
The message mentioned the themed night for the weekend. 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 that point on, trust became something that needed careful maintenance, and suspicion and secrets mixed into the affection. We still lived under the same roof, shared the same bed, yet each of us left another door open for ourselves in our hearts.
Behind the door were heat, bodies, and those nights that could not be spoken aloud.
I don't know how long such days can last.
I only knew that when he once again held me from behind and said in my ear, “I want you,” I would still respond.
Only this time, with my eyes closed, two images would appear in my mind—one was him, the other was the smiling white man in the bathroom.
And I, could no longer tell which one hurt my heart more, or which one made me more honest.
After that night, life superficially returned to calm.
He still got up early as usual to prepare breakfast, and I would straighten his tie for him before he left. Affairs at the company remained busy; after coming home at night, we would occasionally watch a movie together, then each take a shower and go to bed. Physical intimacy had not stopped. Whenever he pressed close from behind and whispered in my ear, "I want you," I would still turn around and respond to his kiss, actively parting my legs and accepting his familiar entry.
But every time I closed my eyes, the image would split into two layers.
There is one layer: the face of the man currently pressing down on me, his brows slightly furrowed, his breathing growing heavier, and each thrust below going deeper than the last. Another layer, though, is the smiling gaze of that white man in the bathroom, and the slightly awkward yet unusually scorching sensation as he entered me. The two memories entangle, making the pleasure come even sharper, and even more chaotic.
At the moment of ejaculation, I often can't tell who I'm responding to.
Once after finishing, he didn't pull out immediately. Instead, he held me tight from behind while still connected, his chin resting in the crook of my shoulder. His warm breath brushed my skin as he suddenly asked, 'Is something on your mind lately?'
My body stiffened almost imperceptibly, then relaxed. I reached back and gently patted his arm: 'Work stuff. It's always like this at year-end.'
He gave an “mm” and didn’t ask further. It was a long time before he slowly withdrew and went to the bathroom to wash up. When the sound of running water started, I lay alone on the messy sheets, staring at the ceiling, but in my heart I clearly knew——once some cracks appear, they can never be completely filled by everyday intimacy again.
He went on a business trip out of town for the weekend.
In the empty house, I sat alone until very late. The phone screen lit up and dimmed, dimmed and lit up. In the end, I still opened the membership page of that bathhouse. The promotional image for the theme night was still hanging, paired with ambiguous lighting and blurred body outlines. I stared at it for a long time, finally closed the page, and fell asleep on the sofa.
In the dream, it's all the sound of steam and bodies colliding.
When he came back on Monday, he brought local specialties. We ate dinner as usual, and he enthusiastically told me about the interesting things he had encountered on his business trip. I listened, occasionally responding, but in my heart there was always a thin layer of mist. When he came close again at night, I did not refuse. This time I took the initiative to straddle him, my hands braced on his chest, controlling the rhythm of rise and fall myself. He looked up at me, his eyes showing obvious surprise and fascination.
“So active today.” he said, panting, both hands gripping my waist.
I didn't answer, just lowered my head and kissed him, using action to block any overflowing emotions. The physical pleasure was real and intense, but a corner of my heart was清醒得近乎残忍—I was using this method to confirm he still belonged to me, while also using this method to punish myself for that day's沉沦 in the bathroom.
The climax came urgently and fiercely. I lay exhausted on top of him, my forehead 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 an 'Mmm.'
But at that moment I clearly knew that some answers were no longer simple yes or no. Trust had been diluted, yet desire had become even more complicated. The warmth he left in my body, and the memory left by that strange man in the bathroom, were like two parallel rivers, silently converging in the night and then flowing separately in the day.
For 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 were unfamiliar message alerts on his phone, whether he would stay in the bathroom a little longer when showering. These tiny suspicions were like fine needles, pricking at the seams of everyday life—not fatal, but constantly present. Once, he answered a call and walked out to the balcony, his voice lowered very softly. I stood in the kitchen listening to the muffled tone, the kitchen knife in my hand frozen in midair; only after the call ended and he came in to embrace me from behind did I continue cutting vegetables.
“Who hit you?” I tried to keep my tone 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 consideration, the excitement when we bought a house together, the seriousness when we planned for the future together—all of it truly existed. But the scene in the bathroom was just as real. Public lovemaking, the thrill of being watched, the utterly immersed expression at the moment of climax—those things that belonged to me were shared with others in that instant.
And I myself, under the assault of anger and desire, gave my body to another person.
Sometimes I wonder, if I hadn't come back early that day, could everything have maintained its superficial intactness? If I had barged into the shower and confronted them, would the outcome have been different? But these questions have no answers. The reality is, we have both crossed a certain line, yet we both choose to pretend the line doesn't exist.
Another Friday night, he came home early and made the dishes I loved most. At the dinner table he drank a little, his eyes brighter than usual. After cleaning up the kitchen, he pressed me straight onto the sofa and kissed me, his movements more eager than usual. I responded, wrapping my arms around his neck, but the moment he entered me, my body involuntarily remembered the touch of another person.
The pleasure was still intense, even more acute because of the inner turmoil. I bit his shoulder, making suppressed sounds as I climaxed. He panted heavily, speeding up his final thrusts. After releasing everything inside me, his whole body pressed down heavily, his breathing gradually steadying.
“I love you.” he said in my ear, his voice carrying the laziness and seriousness after sex.
I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling, taking several seconds before softly replying, 'Me too.'
This sentence was true. Love hadn't disappeared; it had just grown heavy, mixed with suspicion, guilt, and an indescribable complicity in each other's bodily secrets. We still slept in the same bed, shared the same life, yet both kept another door open in our hearts.
Behind the door was a steamy bathroom, unfamiliar bodies, and those nights that could not be easily spoken aloud.
I don't know how long this balance can last. I only know that when he approaches from behind again and repeats '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 in my mind—one of him, and one of that smiling white man.
Heartache and honesty have become entangled into an unsolvable knot.
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