NTR: Minor Villain Wants to Be the Main Villain-Chapter 69: A houseful of Frustration!

A week later, the household had officially transformed into a soap opera scripted by Satan himself. The air was thick with malice, betrayal, and enough pent-up sin to make a confessional booth spontaneously combust.

Chen was losing his shit—and not just metaphorically. His wife had banished him from their bedroom, leaving him exiled to the couch, which might as well have been designed by medieval torturers.

His lanky ass couldn’t even fit on the damn thing. He’d spent the last seven nights contorted like a yoga reject, waking up with a neck so stiff it felt like a permanent "fuck you" from his body.

His back was in open rebellion, his legs were cramped like a pretzel, and his soul was on the brink of filing for divorce.

Now, logic would suggest he could crash in Artis’s room—his beloved, oh-so-loyal brother-in-law.

After all, Artis was definitely not edging Chen’s wife every chance he got and certainly not scheming to rearrange her insides while Chen snoozed on the couch.

But asking for that favor would mean admitting he’d lost control of his household.

And Chen, despite being physically stronger than a goddamn ox, was still terrified of the one immutable truth of married life: a wife is a wife.

Sure, he could lift boulders or punch holes through drywall, but none of that strength mattered when you were up against the unyielding power of a pissed-off woman who knew exactly where the good knives were kept.

The craziest part? Chen had no fucking clue what he’d done wrong. Not a damn thing made sense.

He was like a dog chasing its tail—except the tail was guilt, and the dog was sleep-deprived, horny, and one cramp away from a psychotic break.

Frustration was eating him alive. It gnawed at him during work, where his concentration was shot to shit.

And considering he worked for the human disaster that was Young Master Jin—a trust-fund brat with the emotional maturity of a wet sock—it was only a matter of time before Jin’s dumb ass latched onto Chen’s misery like a leech and started mocking him for it.

"Stupid fuck! Can’t even get this armor on!"

Chen growled, wrestling with his gear like it owed him money.

He was back in his room—the only time his wife graciously allowed him entry, and only because he needed to get dressed for work. And, of course, his armor, like everything else in his life, was being a massive bitch.

It was too tight in places it shouldn’t be and way too loose in others, making him look like a badly rolled burrito. He had to practically meditate to keep from snapping the damn thing in half.

"Everything...is fucking...me...sideways...fuck!"

He roared, his frustration finally spilling over.

Honestly? Truer words had never been spoken.

Meanwhile, in another corner of this circus of dysfunction, someone else was leaning against a table, her supple ass cheeks molding against its edge like dough meeting a rolling pin.

The thin black nightgown she wore did little to hide the tantalizing curves underneath, and yet the air around her wasn’t just sultry—it was downright volcanic.

Her crossed arms propped up her heaving breasts, each rise and fall practically screaming, Notice me, you dumb fuck!

But the aura she exuded wasn’t just lust—it was a cocktail of anger, desperation, and the kind of frustration only a woman in a self-imposed dry spell could summon.

It wasn’t just any lust, either. It was endgame lust.

The kind that made her core burn like a furnace, her pussy quiver like it had a mind of its own, and every nerve in her body beg for a release she refused to give.

The itch deep inside her was maddening, like she’d swallowed a vibrator set to "tease" mode, and every second of denial felt like hell on Earth.

And to top it all off? She’d made a vow. Some noble, self-righteous bullshit she’d convinced herself she could stick to.

But instead of resolve, all it brought her was throbbing heat, a dangerous amount of horniness, and the looming threat that she might just combust if someone didn’t pin her to that table and fuck her brains out.

’Damn it! Why the fuck did I take that stupid vow?’

Her thoughts ran wild, pacing circles like a horny animal caged by its own terrible life choices. And why the hell wasn’t that bastard Artis even looking at her?

The self-inflicted torture was her own doing, sure—but was it really her fault? No! It was his fault.

That smug, cocky tease with his lewd-ass smirks and the way he acted like the king of the damn universe. If it weren’t for his shameless teasing and those lingering, sinful stares, she wouldn’t be in this mess.

And oh, what a mess it was. Her vow? Pure masochism: no touching herself, no scratching that infernal itch in her pussy until Artis—and only Artis—dicked her down into oblivion.

She wasn’t asking for much, right? Just the full course—his fat, juicy, thick, veiny, girthy, long, throbbing cock; his big, heavy, slutty balls; his sweaty, sculpted abs; and his goddamn strong arms pinning her down like she was his personal fuck toy.

She tried everything. She dressed to kill—low cuts, high slits, fabric so sheer it might as well have been invisible.

She even talked to him with the sultry tone of a seasoned seductress, practically begging him to rail her with every suggestive word.

But the motherfucker? He was blind—or worse, immune.

Anyone else with a pulse would’ve been begging to fuck her senseless by now. Hell, even the goddamn wallpaper probably had a boner.

But not him. Nope. Artis, the bastard she wanted most, just kept going about his business, leaving her hot, bothered, and teetering on the brink of a breakdown.

Her hands hovered dangerously close to ground zero, twitching like they had a mind of their own.

She was this close to breaking her self-imposed, stupid-as-fuck vow, and honestly? Who could blame her?

The deep, fiery itch in her pussy was driving her absolutely batshit insane, like a bad song stuck on repeat—except this one played moans.

She scowled, turning her gaze to her useless excuse for a husband, fumbling with his armor like it was some kind of cursed Rubik’s Cube. The sight of him made her blood boil.

’How the fuck is someone this weak still alive?’

"Pathetic."

She muttered under her breath, watching him grunt and flail.

If Artis had been the one struggling, he’d have done it with style. He’d flex those bulging arms, beads of sweat glistening on his chiseled chest while he gritted his teeth and—oh fuck.

A sudden twitch in her pussy snapped her back to reality. Her breath hitched as the vivid mental image took root, Artis practically radiating sex appeal in her mind’s eye. Goddammit.

Her hand shot down instinctively, trembling just above her throbbing need. So close. But no. Not yet. Not until the real deal.

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She clenched her jaw, biting her lip so hard she was surprised it didn’t bleed, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shake off the horny hurricane ravaging her brain.

"Patience, Nadia," she whispered to herself like some kind of deranged mantra. "He’s going to dick us down. It’s only a matter of time…"

She opened her eyes and glared at her hapless husband again. But instead of calming her down, his awkward grunting only made her angrier—and hornier. She needed Artis, damn it. Needed him to fuck her brains out and end her misery.

Because if he didn’t? She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out before ripping off her own vow—and her panties.

Just a week ago, she had stumbled upon the first act of pure, unfiltered sinfulness between her mother and Artis.

And ever since that day, her once dull, gray-toned mother had been glowing like someone splashed her with a bucket of technicolor happiness. It was infuriating.

She was laughing more, singing like she was auditioning for a Disney musical, and blushing every damn time Artis was within a five-mile radius.

It was like watching a horny teenager rediscover their libido after decades of celibacy.

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And the blatant flirting? Oh, that was the cherry on the fucked-up sundae. They didn’t even bother hiding it anymore!

She’d caught them kissing, teasing, groping—oh yeah, groping. And let’s not even talk about the grinding.

Grinding so shameless that she could practically hear the soundtrack of a cheap porno playing in the background.

And his hands? Those big, greedy paws of his were always on Juliana’s ass. Like always. Standing close? Ass grab. Passing by? Ass grab. Breathing in the same fucking room? Yup, you guessed it. Ass grab.

No, she wasn’t peeping! How dare you even think that? She just happened to notice these things because they were impossible to ignore. Trust her on this one.

But all this shameless display of lust and affection was making her jealous as fuck—and so goddamn frustrated she was surprised she hadn’t combusted yet.

It was like the universe was mocking her: Look at them, Nadia. See how happy they are. See how much action she’s getting. Oh, and you? Yeah, enjoy your dry spell.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. Jealousy burned in her chest while frustration brewed lower, much lower, leaving her a quivering, sexually-frustrated mess. Fuck her life. No, seriously.

Someone fucking fuck her life already.