The Unraked Garden
Copyright© 2025 by Infinite Eleven
Chapter 2
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2 - After secretly discovering my shameful fantasy in my private notebook, my wife initiates a confusing and electrifying encounter with the one man I truly despise.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Reluctant Cheating Cuckold Sharing Slut Wife Wife Watching Oral Sex
The silence in the living room had become a physical presence, a weight that settled in the space between the sofa and his armchair. For two days, Ethan and Nora had orbited each other, their conversations limited to household logistics, their touches brief and tentative. The incident at the garden shed was an unacknowledged ghost haunting their quiet home.
Finally, Ethan couldn’t stand it any longer. He set his book down. “Nora.”
She looked up from her tablet, her hazel eyes wide and uncertain.
“What happened with Gus the other day?” he asked, his voice lower than he intended. “I don’t understand it.”
He watched her shoulders slump, a visible deflation. She looked small, curled on the sofa. “I know,” she whispered. “It was stupid.”
“It was more than stupid. You leaned on him. The way you spoke to him...” The images were still burned into his mind: her body pressed against Gus’s, her breathy, foreign-sounding voice.
Nora’s eyes began to well up. He hadn’t expected tears. “I saw the way he was talking to you, Ethan. The way he calls you ‘Professor,’ like you’re some helpless bookworm who can’t even handle a garden. It just ... it made me so angry.”
Ethan stared at her, caught off guard. He hadn’t considered that.
“I was just so irritated with him being a condescending ass to you,” she continued, her voice gaining a bit of frustrated strength. “I wanted to ... I don’t know, knock him off balance? It was a stupid, impulsive thing to do.”
The explanation landed with a surprising amount of force. It was rash, it was ill-conceived, but it was rooted in something he understood: loyalty. Protective anger. It reframed the entire bizarre event.
“But you let him touch you...” The words were out before he could stop them, the memory of Gus’s grimy hand on her hip still a sharp point in his gut.
“I didn’t know how to stop it once it started,” she said, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. “I felt so gross afterwards. Can we just ... move past it? Please?”
He was across the room in an instant, kneeling by the sofa and pulling her into his arms. He felt a surge of love so fierce it almost hurt. She had done a foolish, strange thing, but she had done it for him. He was the one who should be sorry, for being so passive in the face of Gus’s bullying that his wife felt she had to intervene.
“Okay,” he whispered into her hair, breathing in her familiar, comforting scent. “Okay. We’ll forget it.” He held her tight, the unsettling arousal he’d felt now buried under a wave of guilt and fierce, protective love.
A few days later, Ethan felt the familiar rhythm of their life settling back into place. The tension had dissipated, replaced by a quiet, reassuring affection. He was just wrapping up his last seminar of the day, a dense lecture on late Roman provincial administration, when his phone buzzed on the lectern.
He glanced down. A message from Nora.
“Thinking I might swing by the garden later to see you! Bring you a coffee. ❤️”
A slow smile spread across Ethan’s face. The garden. It felt like a deliberate olive branch, an effort to reclaim their shared space from the unpleasant memory of Gus. The thought of seeing her there, of them sharing a quiet moment among his ordered rows of plants, filled him with a profound sense of rightness. This was them. This was normal.
He texted back a quick, Can’t wait.
He packed up his briefcase, the dry details of Roman bureaucracy already fading from his mind, replaced by the much more pleasant image of his wife waiting for him in the late afternoon sun.
Meanwhile, forty-five minutes before Ethan’s seminar had even ended, Nora was already pulling into the nearly empty parking lot of the Northwood Community Garden. She had just sent the text to Ethan from her car, her thumb hovering over the “send” button for a long moment before she pressed it. A lie. A perfect, sweet, wifely lie that sent a jolt of liquid heat through her belly. The feeling was a dizzying mix of guilt, fear, and a humming, electric anticipation she hadn’t felt in years.
She had chosen her outfit with the deliberate care of a soldier preparing for battle. The faded, well-worn jeans were a masterpiece of misdirection, suggesting a casual, unplanned errand. But they were also her best pair, the ones that cupped the high, round swell of her ass perfectly, a silent invitation. The t-shirt was the real weapon. It was a simple, thin white cotton, soft and unassuming. But hidden beneath it, a deliberate, provocative secret, was the black lace bra. The same one she knew Ethan had noticed her wearing the other day. It was an intricate, almost fragile web of fabric that she knew, with a thrill that made her breath catch, would become shockingly visible with just a little water.
This was a game of variables, and she had accounted for them all. Ethan’s schedule, down to the minute. Gus, a creature of unwavering and predictable habit, who she knew would already be there, holding court over his chaotic patch of earth.
She got out of her car, the warm afternoon air a soft caress on her skin. She walked through the main gate, her eyes scanning the plots until they landed on him. There he was. Leaning against a fence post, a cigar clamped in his teeth, the very picture of idle, male arrogance. He was exactly what her husband’s secret words had painted him to be: crude, disgusting, and perfect.
She took a deep, steadying breath, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She smoothed the front of her shirt, the innocent white fabric a lie against the dark lace beneath. Then, arranging a friendly, guileless smile on her face, she started walking toward him. The game had begun.
Ethan pulled into the garden’s gravel lot at precisely four o’clock, a smile on his face. He saw Nora’s car and felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest. He grabbed his things and headed toward the gate, anticipating the quiet pleasure of spending an hour with his wife among the tomato plants.
Then he saw them.
His steps faltered. His heart, which had been light moments before, felt like a stone dropping in his gut. They weren’t by their plot. They were over by Gus’s, standing close, and Nora was laughing at something the older man had said.
Instinct took over. Ethan ducked behind a tall, thick hedge, his body moving before his mind could fully process the scene. A hot, prickling feeling washed over his skin. Coincidence, he told himself, his mind scrambling for a rational foothold. She got here early. He was just here. She was just being polite.
He peered through a gap in the leaves. Gus was holding up one of his monstrously oversized zucchinis, pontificating about his “secret” fertilizing technique. As he went to hand it to Nora, he feigned a stumble. The movement was clumsy, theatrical. The full watering can in his other hand tipped, sending a tidal wave of murky, brown water splashing directly onto Nora’s chest.
Ethan’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp, ragged sound that he instantly stifled. The slosh of water from the can was loud, followed by a shocking splat as it hit Nora. Her body, so poised and graceful just moments before, flinched violently, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping her lips. He saw her shoulders hunch, a reflexive shiver running through her slender frame.
The thin, white fabric of her t-shirt, once an innocent barrier, began its horrifying transformation. Ethan watched, mesmerized and repulsed, as the murky brown water spread like a dark, invading stain. First, a small, damp patch bloomed over her sternum, then it rapidly expanded, soaking through the fine cotton with a horrifying speed. The white turned to a translucent, clinging film, revealing the delicate, black lace pattern of her bra beneath. It wasn’t an instant reveal; it was a slow, agonizing emergence, the dark silhouette sharpening with every passing second. The intricate floral design of the lace, once hidden, now stood out in stark, vivid detail against the pale canvas of her skin. The material, so sheer and fragile, framed the full, pale globes of her breasts, the faint outline of her nipples visibly hardening beneath the cold shock of the water.
“Oh, you clumsy oaf!” Gus bellowed, a look of exaggerated, theatrical concern plastered on his face. But his eyes, Ethan noticed with a sickening lurch, were not concerned. They were wide, fixed on Nora’s chest, gleaming with a hungry, predatory glint. A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled in his chest, clearly not an apology. “Here, let me help, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want you catching a chill, look at you, soaked right through!”
Gus fumbled in his back pocket, pulling out a particularly grimy, oil-stained rag, its edges frayed and dark with ingrained dirt. He moved in closer, invading her personal space with an unsettling eagerness. He didn’t just dab; his thick, calloused knuckles, rimmed with black grime, swept across her chest with slow, heavy motions, grazing against the side of her breasts, circling over the newly revealed lace. He pressed the rag firmly against the fabric, ostensibly to “absorb” the water, but clearly prolonging the intimate contact.
“My, my, look at that,” Gus drawled, his voice thick with insinuation, his gaze fixed on her chest. “You’re practically ... gleaming, sweetheart. Some things look better wet, if you ask me. Especially on a pretty thing like you.” He leaned in closer, his stale breath, smelling faintly of old cigarettes and sweat, ghosting over her ear.
Nora stood perfectly still, letting him. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver, either from the cold water or a calculated performance for Gus’s benefit. Her voice, when she spoke, was breathy, a little more suggestive than Ethan could ever remember hearing. “Oh, it’s soaked through,” she murmured, her head tilted slightly as if genuinely assessing the damage. Her eyes, however, subtly flicked up to Gus’s face, a silent invitation to observe. “It’s so thin, isn’t it, Mr. Henderson? One little splash and ... well. It just clings, doesn’t it? Right to the skin.” As she spoke, she pressed her arms lightly against her sides, a subtle motion that drew the wet fabric tighter, making the bra and the burgeoning outline of her nipples even more prominent.
Gus’s grin widened, his eyes devouring the sight. “Clings real nice, sweetheart. Real nice indeed. Here, let me get that spot under your arm, wouldn’t want you catching a cold now, would we?” His arm reached around her side, his fingers splaying slightly as he ostensibly wiped, his calloused fingertips brushing against her waist, then dipping lower, grazing the soft curve of her buttock briefly before returning to her side. He then moved the rag up, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of her neck and shoulder, lingering for a beat too long.
Ethan, hidden behind the hedge, felt a wave of nausea. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white against the rough leaves. The raw, visceral reality of Gus’s filthy hands on his wife’s body was a torment, each touch an unbearable violation. Yet, beneath the revulsion, a hot, shameful throb pulsed in his groin, a perverse arousal that made him hate himself. He could almost feel Gus’s rough hands, could almost smell the stale sweat and cigarettes clinging to Nora’s skin. He wanted to scream, to leap out and rip Gus away, but he was frozen, a prisoner to the unfolding spectacle.
Nora let out a soft, breathy “Oh,” as Gus’s hand lingered. She maintained her placid, almost innocent expression, but her eyes, when they met Gus’s, held a flicker of something knowing, a subtle shift of her weight that allowed, rather than resisted, the contact.
“A beautiful mess, that’s what this is,” Gus repeated, his voice husky with desire. “A real, real beautiful mess.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot on her face.
It was then that Nora did something that made the world tilt on its axis for Ethan. With a slow, deliberate motion, she hooked the fingertips of both hands under the hem of her wet t-shirt. This wasn’t an impulsive gesture; it was a calculated piece of pure, calculated exhibitionism. She didn’t lift it to take it off. Instead, she pulled the heavy, damp fabric down and away from her body, stretching it taut across her chest. The motion was agonizingly slow, a deliberate reveal. The wet cotton became a second skin, a sheer canvas that offered a perfect, unobstructed view.
The bra underneath was a fragile web of black lace, made even more transparent by the murky water. Ethan could see everything. He could see the full, heavy weight of her pale breasts straining against the delicate fabric, the droplets of water clinging to the intricate floral pattern. He could see the dusky, dark circle of her areola through the sheer lace, and at its center, her nipple, a hard, pebbled point reacting to the cold and the thrill, a tiny, defiant bud. It was a breathtaking, obscene display of domestic lingerie made shockingly public.