Misc. Erotica Kaisi Ye Aaag...Ajeeb Sa Daag (English Version)

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[mahamatherchod]

updates are too much slow & irregular

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[mahamatherchod]

update

[C10000boy]

please update the conversation also in english

[abcturbine]

Waiting.....

[AK0047]

I'm working on a advanced corrected version of the story
Will post the update very soon

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The fire of the flesh is a dangerously unforgiving thing. Once it ignites, it does not extinguish itself until it has reduced the entire being to ashes.

You may begin something casually, in the name of harmless fun, believing you will remain in control. You tell yourself you can handle it. But once things spiral out of hand, control slips away completely. That is exactly what happened to me.


My name is Dev—Dev Sharma. I am twenty-five years old. I work in Kolkata, employed at the State Bank of India as a manager. I had been married only recently—barely six months into the marriage—when everything began to unravel.



My wife’s name is Puja—Puja Sharma. She was twenty-one years old, about five feet six inches tall, and strikingly fair-skinned. Her complexion was so delicate that even a light touch would leave her blushing red. She was beautifully proportioned, possessing a natural grace that made her seem almost ethereal—like a living embodiment of sensual charm.





Soon after our marriage, we moved to Kolkata and rented a two-bedroom apartment. The flat was a little far from my office, mainly because the rent there was more affordable. Since I owned a car, the distance didn’t seem like an issue. The daily commute took around forty-five minutes.

Our apartment was in Block F, on the top floor. All the blocks in the society were connected at the top level, and each floor had three flats. On our floor, two were occupied by elderly couples—one uncle was around seventy, the aunt perhaps sixty-five. They rarely stepped out and kept mostly to themselves. The third flat belonged to someone who worked outside the city and visited only once or twice a year.

Block F was the last block in the line. Behind it stretched an open, deserted field—completely silent and isolated, with hardly anyone ever passing through. There were six blocks arranged in a straight line, connected sequentially—F to E, E to D, and so on. Because Block E stood in front of us, our block was hidden from the rest of the society. Only the residents of Block E could see Block F.

The top floor was the only option available at the time, but we liked the society overall, so we decided to make it our home. We were excited—new house, a new beginning. We shopped extensively for the place. Puja had studied home décor, and she had a genuine passion for interior design. She took complete charge, decorating the house according to her taste. Although our honeymoon hadn’t happened yet, we were genuinely happy. I was secretly planning it—Maldives, filled with carefree moments—and wanted to surprise her, so I hadn’t mentioned it.

After about a month of effort, the house was fully furnished. Puja had done a remarkable job—an elegant blend of modern and classic aesthetics.

Puja came from a very decent, traditional family. She was raised in a small town in Himachal Pradesh, where she lived until the tenth grade. Later, she moved to Delhi for college. 

There, she adapted slightly to urban fashion—she dressed tastefully and modernly, but never crossed into anything overly revealing. She always upheld the values she was raised with. She was careful not to do anything that might hurt her family’s sentiments. Academics were always her priority. She kept minimal interaction with men—only casual friendships in college, nothing beyond that.

In simple terms, Puja appeared extremely innocent.
There’s a saying—that those who appear most innocent on the outside often carry intense desires within, though they rarely let them surface easily. You could take the character of Gajgamini from Mirzapur as a rough reference. But my wife was different. Or perhaps not. The truth of who she really was would only unfold through the intriguing events that were yet to come in our lives.

Our daily routine followed a simple, almost comforting rhythm. We would wake up around seven in the morning. Puja would bathe first, and after that, she would sit down for her prayers. Once she was done, she would prepare breakfast for me. I would then get ready, have my meal, and leave for the office by nine.

My working hours were from nine to six. Since the house was quite far from the office, I usually had lunch there. In the evenings, I would return home and have dinner before seven. Dinner, in fact, held special importance in our household—it was the one meal we always shared together without compromise.

Every morning before leaving, I would kiss Puja goodbye, and she would stand on the balcony, waving to me. She stayed there until I disappeared from her sight.

After that, she would take care of the house. Puja was extremely particular about cleanliness. Even the smallest speck of dirt would prompt her to start cleaning immediately. It was a good habit, though at times she took it so far that even I would feel irritated. Later, she would cook something light for herself, eat, and rest from one to three in the afternoon. After waking up, she would watch television for a while. By five in the evening, she would begin preparing dinner.

Once I returned home, we would eat together and then watch a romantic movie on Netflix. By ten at night, we would usually be asleep. Life flowed smoothly—quiet, ordinary, and content.

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Then one day, everything changed.

Our peaceful routine was disrupted the moment a third presence entered our lives.

Puja rarely stepped out of the house. She did some light yoga to stay fit. One evening, I suggested that we start going for short walks after dinner every night. Puja agreed. That day, after dinner around eight, we stepped out for a walk.
She wore jogging pants and a T-shirt, and I was dressed in a tracksuit.





As we reached the gate of our apartment complex, a man greeted us. I returned the greeting politely. He appeared to be around fifty years old, with a coal-dark complexion. He wasn’t very tall—perhaps around five feet five inches.


He had a well-built body—clearly someone who must have practiced bodybuilding in his younger days.


 



He was the society’s watchman. I had never seen him before, though his uniform made his role obvious. Still, a sense of curiosity made me want to know whether he was new or had been around for a while.


Me: I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Are you new?

Aslam: No, sir. I’ve been working here for the past three years. My shift is from 7:30 at night until morning, so that’s probably why you haven’t seen me.

Me: Oh… so what’s your name?

Aslam: My name is Aslam. I guess you’re new here — I haven’t seen you before either. My shift used to be in the mornings about six months ago, but I still don’t recall seeing you then.

Me: Yes, we moved here about two months ago. Just stepped out for a bit of a walk today.

During this exchange, Puja showed no particular interest. She was looking around casually, clearly just waiting for the conversation to end so we could continue our walk.


Me: Alright then, uncle, we’ll get going.

Aslam: Sure, sir. If you ever have any trouble or need to know anything about this place, just let me know. I’ll be happy to help.

Me: Definitely.


We then headed out for our walk. That day, Aslam chacha came across as a decent man. His manner suggested he was helpful, and since he was the society’s watchman, there was a natural sense of trust. After the walk, we returned home, watched a movie on Netflix as usual, and went to sleep.


This routine continued for a few days. Every evening, we went for our walk, and I would exchange a few words with Aslam chacha. Gradually, I noticed something about him—he had a way with words. He was naturally funny and could hold a conversation effortlessly.

Slowly, I began to notice that Puja, too, was starting to find his conversations interesting. As many would agree, humor has a strange charm—people who can make others laugh are often easily liked. Puja seemed to feel the same. Still, she was very shy, so she never actively spoke. Whenever Aslam chacha cracked a joke, she would simply smile—quietly, almost unconsciously.

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Gradually, I began to notice a shift. Chacha’s jokes became more frequent, more deliberate. And whenever Puja smiled, his gaze lingered on her—as if the humor was meant solely for her attention. At first, it unsettled me. Then I reasoned with myself. He was a man, after all. No matter how decent someone appears, a man often tries to appear a little more impressive in front of a woman. Initially, I found nothing overtly wrong in it.


One evening, as we were preparing to go for our walk, we were running late. I asked Puja to hurry. That’s when I noticed she wasn’t wearing her usual gym outfit. Instead, she had on a beautiful nightdress. She looked breathtaking.





I told her it was already night—who would even notice? We were just stepping out briefly and coming straight back. But she refused.

Puja: Ismein kaise bahar jaa sakti hoon? Yeh ghar ke liye hai. Bahar log dekh lenge.

Main: Arre kaun dekhega? Yahan aas-paas koi nahi hota. Bas walk karke wapas aa jayenge.

The apartment was located in an isolated area. The nearest residential houses were nearly five hundred meters away. The surroundings were usually deserted at night.

Puja: Par gate par Aslam chacha honge. Aise kaise jaaun?

I don’t know why, but hearing Aslam’s name from Puja’s lips—combined with the thought of her stepping out like that in front of him—sent a strange shiver through me. For the first time, my body reacted in a way that surprised even me.

Main: Toh kya hua? Woh toh buzurg aadmi hain. Tumhare papa ki umar ke honge.

Puja: (slightly hesitant, her discomfort visible on her face) Theek hai… par aaj Aslam chacha se koi baat nahi karni. Bas walk karke wapas aa jayenge.

Whether it was hormones or something darker, I don’t know—but something primitive stirred within me that day. The more Puja resisted, the more a dangerous curiosity grew inside me. Questions kept swirling in my mind. What would happen? How would he react? Would Puja feel embarrassed—or something else entirely?

That moment, I believe, was the first step toward my own undoing. I thought I would remain in control. But could I really? And what lay ahead—would my wife restrain herself, or would she take another step toward desire?

When we reached the gate, Aslam chacha was standing there. He was wearing extremely shabby clothes, as if they hadn’t been washed in weeks. Puja stayed slightly behind me. Her discomfort was obvious. I stopped deliberately.

Main: Namaste, Aslam chacha.

Aslam: Salaam saab… salaam memsaab.

His eyes widened. Though he spoke to me, his gaze never left Puja.

A woman can sense such attention instantly. Puja understood exactly what his stare meant. She lowered her head completely, unable to meet his eyes.

Main: Chacha, aap toh mujhse hi baat karte ho. Memsaab se toh kabhi baat hi nahi ki.

Aslam: Memsaab shayad mujhe pasand nahi karti. Hamesha door hi rehti hain. Main kaise baat karta?

Puja: Aisi koi baat nahi hai, chacha.

I was startled. It was the first time Puja had spoken to him directly. A faint blush spread across her face as she spoke, her eyes still lowered.

Aslam: Waise memsaab, aaj aap bahut sundar lag rahi ho. Yeh dress aap par bahut suit kar rahi hai.

The moment he said that, my body reacted violently. I became painfully hard, as if about to burst. Puja turned completely red; her cheeks flushed deep crimson. Every hair on my body stood on end. I silently observed the two of them. Aslam’s gaze remained fixed on her without shame, even in my presence. Puja kept adjusting her hair repeatedly, visibly confused, unsure how to react. She stayed silent, unable to respond.

Main: Chacha, aap kahan rehte ho? Family hai?

Aslam: Nahi saab, akela hi rehta hoon. Block E ke top floor par ek room hai. Hum teen watchman rehte hain. Sab aapki tarah khushnaseeb nahi hote.

Block E was connected to ours. And just like us, the watchmen’s rooms were on the top floor. Anything that happened up there could only be seen by people living on that floor.

Main: Chacha, aapke paas mobile hai? Apna number de do. Zarurat padi toh call kar lunga.

Aslam: Jee saab, likh lijiye… 99*****67.

I had intentionally not brought my phone that day. I asked Puja to save it instead. She looked at me in surprise, then silently saved the number. I did this deliberately, just to create an excuse for them to talk.

Puja: Chacha, ek baar phir number boliye.

Aslam: Haan memsaab… 99*****67. Aur ek missed call de dijiye, taaki main bhi save kar loon.

Puja: Nahi chacha, Dev hi call karenge.

Aslam: Mujhe pata hai memsaab, aap mujhe pasand nahi karti.

Puja: Aisi koi baat nahi hai… lo, kar diya.

She didn’t look at me even once for approval. She simply gave the missed call.

At that moment, I was completely out of control. My body betrayed me so intensely that it was impossible to hide.

Thankfully, the area was dimly lit. I felt an unsettling cuckold-like sensation—as if my wife was slipping away from me. Yet instead of panic, excitement flooded me. Desire overpowered insecurity. Slowly, disturbingly, I began to enjoy it.

We took a short walk and returned home. That night, we had wild sex. I don’t know why, but Puja was unusually intense. She moved like a thirsty tigress. It felt as though she wasn’t Puja at all—she surrendered herself with reckless abandon. During sex, she rubbed her body hard against mine, sucked on my lips aggressively. It felt less like I was having sex with her, and more like she was using me.



She bounced on top of me, taking me fully inside herself again and again—something that had never happened before. Usually, she was too tight; I had to go slowly. That night, there was no hesitation.





All I could think was—was this Aslam Chacha’s effect? Was she imagining him instead of me? Countless questions raced through my mind. But I couldn’t ask her directly. Whatever I wanted to uncover, I would have to do it indirectly.
And in trying to uncover the truth… would I end up pushing Puja one step further? Would this step draw her deeper into desire—or would it finally force her to stop?

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After a night of intense sex, I woke up late the next morning. Puja was still asleep, so I left for the office without breakfast.
 

When I was returning home after finishing work, I saw Puja standing near the gate with some shopping bags. And standing right beside her was Aslam Chacha. The two of them were talking, and every now and then Puja was smiling at something he said.




Something about it felt strange. In the evenings, when we went jogging, they barely exchanged a word. And now here they were, laughing and chatting so comfortably. 

My body reacted instantly; desire surged through me again. Curiosity gnawed at me—I wanted to know what they were talking about. I couldn’t control myself and walked straight up to them.


Me: “Arre, aaj aap dono ek saath? Kahin meri aankhon ko dhokha to nahi ho raha? Shaam ko to dono ek-dusre se baat karne mein jhijhak rahe the.”

Puja: “Nahi, aisi koi baat nahi hai. Main market gayi thi, to Chacha pooch rahe the kahan gayi thi.”


Aslam: “Haan, bas wahi pooch raha tha.”


Inside my head, I kept thinking—then what was that smile for?

Me:“Achha, theek hai. Tum dono baat karo.”

Puja: “Unhone poochha, maine bata diya. Aur kya baat karni? Main bhi chalti hoon.”


Then we all walked back together. I didn’t believe Puja’s explanation at all. If that was all, then why had she been smiling like that? So I came up with a plan—to find out what really went on between them.

I had bought a tiny voice recorder, small enough to hide anywhere. It could clearly record nearby conversations without being noticed. The next day, before leaving for the office, I slipped it inside Puja’s vanity. I knew she had a parlour appointment that day, which meant she’d be going out—and there was a chance she might run into Aslam.


At the office, I couldn’t focus at all. My body was there, but my mind was consumed by one thought—what would the recorder capture? Did they talk? What did they talk about? What kind of conversation made Puja smile like that? The more I thought about it, the more restless and aroused I became.


The moment work ended, I rushed home. Puja was cooking. Usually, by the time I arrived, dinner was already prepared—but that day she was late. She had just returned from the parlour. She looked stunning—almost unreal—beautiful and irresistibly hot.

Me:“Wooow, jaan… bahut hi khoobsurat lag rahi ho. Mann kar raha hai abhi tumhein baahon mein le loon aur poori body par kiss karta jaoon.”

Puja: “Rehne dijiye. Nahi to aaj bhookha rehna padega.”

Me: “Par aaj itni der kyun? Ab tak to dinner ban jaata hai.”

Puja: “Haan, parlour se aate waqt late ho gaya.”


All I could think about was whether she had spoken to Aslam that day or not. My eyes kept darting around, searching for the vanity. I was desperate to retrieve the recorder and listen to it—but I couldn’t do it yet. Night was the only safe time.

We had dinner. Then Puja herself said we wouldn’t go jogging that night. Instead, we went for a walk. That day, Aslam Chacha wasn’t at the gate. As we crossed it, I noticed Puja looking around repeatedly.

Me:“Kya hua? Kisi ko dhoond rahi ho kya?”

Puja:
“Main kyun kisi ko dhoondungi? Par aaj gate par koi watchman dikh nahi raha.”

In my mind, I thought—koi watchman ya Aslam Chacha?

Me:
“Haan, aaj aapke Aslam Chacha bhi dikh nahi rahe.”

Puja:
“Kya matlab mere Chacha? Main bas aise hi keh rahi thi ki koi nahi hai. Kahin society mein chori-wori to nahi ho gayi.”

I couldn’t tell whether she was worried about a thief—or about Aslam not being there.

I had no patience left. All I wanted was to hear that recording. We didn’t have sex that night. I told her I was tired and suggested we sleep. Puja fell asleep quickly.

I quietly got up, took the recorder out of the vanity, and sat in the drawing room. I fast-forwarded through the recording—parlour talk, random chatter—none of it interested me. I kept skipping ahead.

Then suddenly… I heard a male voice.
I recognized it instantly. It was Aslam Chacha.

Aslam:
“Salam, memsaab. Aaj phir se bahar gayi thi… Mash,.'.”




Puja:
“Kya hua, Chacha?!”

Aslam:
“Bhagwan ne aapko badi fursat se banaya hai, memsaab.”

Puja:
“Aisa to nahi… aap bhi na.”

Aslam:
“Main sach bol raha hoon, memsaab. Aap jannat ki pari lag rahi ho.”

Puja:
“Ha ha… aap subah bhi aisa hi bol rahe the.”
(So this was why Puja had been smiling today.)
“Par main koi pari-wari nahi hoon. Mera husband to mujhe kabhi aisa nahi bolta.”

Aslam:
“Bewakoof hai aisa pati jo tum jaisi khoobsurat maal ki tareef na kare.”
(He deliberately emphasized the word maal.)
“Main hota to sirf baaton se tareef nahi karta—kuch aur tareeke se karta.”


Puja:
“Matlab? Main samjhi nahi.”

Aslam:
“Kuch nahi, memsaab.”

Puja:
“Arre Chacha, aap gol-gol baat kyun kar rahe ho? Mujhe kuch samajh nahi aa raha.”

Aslam:
“Memsaab, agar main tumhare pati ki jagah hota, to ghar se hi bahar nahi nikalta. Mera mann hi nahi karta. Ghar se kya—bed se bhi neeche nahi utarta.”

At that moment, Puja understood exactly which direction the conversation was heading.

Puja:
“Achha Chacha, late ho raha hai. Main chalti hoon. Dinner banana hai.”


Aslam:
“Arre memsaab, aap to bura maan gayi. Aapne hi bola tha ghoom-phira ke baat na karo, to jo sahi laga maine seedha bol diya.”

After that, there were no further conversations. Which meant Puja had left immediately.

Hearing this, it felt as though molten lava was about to burst out of me. I went straight to the bathroom and masturbated. The release was so intense it surpassed anything real sex had ever given me. I understood then—on both sides, a spark had already been ignited. Now it was only a matter of time before it turned into a fire. How fiercely each of them would burn—that would reveal itself in due course.


This confirmed one thing clearly: Puja was not uninterested in such conversations. Had she been, she would have snapped at Aslam instantly. But she didn’t. She neither reacted angrily nor protested. She was a married woman, so she didn’t move forward—but she also didn’t shut it down. 

There’s a saying: silence often means consent. 

Somewhere, in some corner of her mind, she was enjoying it. She was restraining herself only because of her marital boundary.

But I had no intention of stopping.

All I needed was to fan the flames just a little. I knew this could mean losing my wife—but at that moment, I was enjoying every second of it. Imagining another man’s desire directed at my wife made me lose all control over myself.

I decided I would light the spark—but before that, I would make arrangements to witness everything: the beginning of the fire, its rise, its rage, and the moment it reduced everything to ashes. I decided to install CCTV cameras throughout the house so I could see everything. 

But how would that be possible while Puja was at home?

So I planned to send her away for a few days.

The next morning, before leaving for office—

Me:
“Jaan, next weekend mujhe office ke kaam se do din ke liye bahar jaana hai. Tum akele kaise rahogi? Do din ke liye ghar se ho aao.”

Puja:
“Par main akele kaise jaaun? Wahan koi paas ka nahi hai. Aap jao—do din ki hi to baat hai. Main reh lungi.”
(I was cornered. No matter what, I had to get Puja out of the house.)

Me:
“Jaan, tum bata rahi thi na ki Kolkata mein tumhari ek dost hai. Wahan ghoom aao. Dost se mulaqat ho jayegi, aur akele bhi nahi rahogi.”

Puja:
“Thik hai… dekhti hoon.”

Me:
“Achha jaan, main chalta hoon. Tum dost se baat kar lena. Friday ko main tumhein wahan chhod dunga.”

I kissed Puja and left for the office.

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On my way back from the office that evening, I stopped by the market and finalized things with the CCTV shop. We agreed that the installation would be done on Saturday. When I reached home, Puja was sitting in the drawing room.


Me:
“Aur… baat hui tumhari dost se?”


Puja:
“Haan. Kaafi din baad baat hui. Wo meet karne ko bol rahi thi. To maine kaha main uske ghar aa jaungi. Friday ko jaana phir.”


Me:
(Barely able to hide my excitement)
“Ohhh, niceee. Phir Friday ko main tumhein chhod aaunga.”


It felt as if destiny itself was conspiring to bring the two of them together. Every step connected to this—everything I was planning—was falling into place effortlessly. The CCTV would be installed on Saturday. Puja would leave on Friday. It was almost poetic, as if two lovers—Aslam’s desire and my wife’s body—were destined to move closer, and I was merely the instrument reducing the distance between them.


After dinner, we went out for a walk. Aslam Chacha was standing at the gate.

Me:
“Namaste, Aslam Chacha. Kal shaam ko dikh nahi rahe the.”

Aslam:
“Wo sahab, thoda kaam se bahar tha.”

Neither of them was looking at the other. Puja was maintaining distance too. I knew exactly why—the aftertaste of yesterday’s conversation still lingered. Breaking the silence, I said—

Me:
“Aslam Chacha, memsaab yahan bilkul akeli ho jaati hain jab main office chala jaata hoon. Yahan to koi dost bhi nahi. Is society mein koi get-together wagairah nahi hota kya?”

Aslam:
“Hota tha, saab, par Corona ki wajah se ab nahi hota. Par memsaab agar aise hi shy rahengi, to kisi se dosti kaise hogi?”
(He said this while looking directly at Puja.)
“Memsaab ko thoda khulna padega.”


My body reacted instantly. Right in front of me, he was throwing double-meaning lines at my wife. If he dared this much in my presence, what would he do when I wasn’t around? But I wasn’t going to back down.


Me:
“To Chacha, aap hi khol dijiye. Koi aur to hai nahi. Kam se kam aapse to baat kar sakti hain.”


Aslam:
“Memsaab khulne dein tab na. Maine kab mana kiya hai?”


I looked at Puja. She had turned completely red with embarrassment. After yesterday’s exchange, she knew exactly what Aslam Chacha meant. I knew too—but I deliberately pretended otherwise.


Me:
“Haan Puja, Aslam Chacha ki baat maan lo. Yahan aur kaun hai jisse tumhari dosti ho sake? Aise mein tumhein akela bhi nahi lagega.”


Puja didn’t say a word. She stood there with her face lowered. Aslam, on the other hand, watched her with a shameless grin. Then we walked back home.


That night, we had intense sex. Just that conversation alone had heated me up completely. Maybe she was just as aroused. Along with me, she was moving aggressively too, matching my rhythm.





That night, we were so wild that we fell asleep naked.

On Friday, I dropped Puja off at her friend’s place. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do. 

For Saturday, I called the CCTV installer. I had already instructed him not to discuss anything at the entrance—no explanations, no small talk. I didn’t want Puja or Aslam—or anyone else—to have even the slightest hint that cameras were being installed.


He came and installed the cameras: one outside the house entrance, one inside the entrance, one in the bedroom, one in the drawing room, one in the kitchen, and one in the bathroom. 

Each camera had an attached microphone—I didn’t want to miss a single conversation. Everything was connected to my desktop. I password-protected it so Puja wouldn’t be able to access it.


The only limitation was that I couldn’t watch anything live. I could only review the footage at night after coming home. But at least I would be able to see everything.


Just thinking about it sent electricity coursing through me. As each camera was installed, my mind filled in the blanks—imagining what would happen there, in that space, in that position. Imagining Puja and Aslam… imagining her body reacting to his presence…

Puja Sucking Aslam's Big Dick 




Aslam Fucking her inside the bathroom 






Inside Kitchen:

Puja enjoying Aslam's Cock while cooking food for me 





All these thoughts were swirling through my mind, and I was getting intensely excited. In that moment, all I could hear in my head was Puja’s moaning—the imagined rhythm, the thap-thap-thap sound of Aslam’s body colliding with Puja’s.






Almost unconsciously, my hand moved to my body, and I began stroking myself hard. Within seconds, I released an overwhelming amount.


You may have noticed that once a man finishes, his desire momentarily subsides. The same happened with me. As the heat faded, doubt crept in. What if I was doing something terribly wrong? What if letting my wife be with another man ended up becoming a permanent habit for her? What if she grew accustomed to him? What if she stopped wanting me altogether? These two opposing fears kept circling my mind.

But more than anything, I needed to understand what was going on inside Puja’s head. Did she truly want to give herself to Aslam? Did she want to tear herself open for another man—or did she still want to remain loyal as a married woman? I knew she was enjoying the teasing, the attention. But would she actually go that far? Could she betray her husband? Could she truly give herself to another man? There were still many veils left to be lifted.


Everything was ready. Every part of my plan had been executed. Only one step remained. And that step could only be taken if Puja herself chose to move forward. She could do that only once her shyness dissolved completely. To remove that shyness, I would have to open her up—open her so much that moving forward would no longer feel wrong or uncomfortable to her.


The next day, I brought Puja back from her friend’s place. It was Sunday, so there was no office. I spent the entire day thinking about what I could do to make Puja more open. I searched extensively online for ways to help a wife open up sexually. Many suggestions pointed toward roleplay as the best method—gradually easing a woman into imagining intimacy with another man.


The idea appealed to me. I thought, why not try it? But I was also afraid. What if I told Puja to imagine sex with someone else during intimacy, and she flatly refused? What if she realized that her husband was thinking about her being with another man? Everything could collapse instantly.


So I had to move carefully—slowly—so that nothing felt strange or forced to her. She had to agree naturally. But how?


All day, I kept wondering how to even begin the conversation. What if I was wrong? What if I had misunderstood everything? What if she didn’t enjoy any of this at all? If that were true, her respect for me would shatter. So I knew one thing for certain: I had to proceed gently. No pushing. No pressure. Just slow, careful steps forward.

[AK0047]

We had dinner late that night since it was Sunday. After eating, we were sitting together casually.

Me:
“Jaan, tum is life se khush ho?”

Puja:
“Kya matlab aapka?”

Me:
“Matlab, main tumhein tumhari family se itni door le aaya. Main to office jaata hoon, colleagues se milta hoon. Par tum poora din ghar mein akeli rehti ho. Koi dost bhi nahi. Tum khush ho na?”

Puja:
“Meri khushi aap mein hai. Aapke saath time spend karna hi mere liye sabse best time hota hai. Phir main khush kyun nahi rahungi? Aap faltu mein tension le rahe ho.”

Me:
“Aur sex… life se?”

Puja:
“Sex life se?”

Me:
“Hamara sex life interesting hai?”

Puja:
“Main bahut zyada enjoy karti hoon. Itna pyaar karne wala husband mila hai, to aur kya chahiye mujhe?”

Inside my head, I kept thinking—she respected me so much. Should I even bring this up? What if she got angry hearing all this? Still, at that moment, desire overpowered everything. No matter what happened, I had to move the conversation forward.

Me:
“Par wahi roz same type ka sex… tum bore nahi ho jaati?”

Puja:
“Bore?! Kya matlab bore? Aap bore ho jaate ho kya?”

Me:
“Mera matlab woh nahi tha. Main bhi sex bahut enjoy karta hoon. Par hum kuch interesting kar sakte hain—kuch alag, kuch naya, jo aur mazedaar ho.”

Puja:
“Jaise ki?”

Me:
“Kuch bhi jo normal sex se thoda different ho.”

Puja:
“To kya abnormal sex karein?” hehe

Me:
“Nahi. Aajkal log different type ke sex karte hain jo sex ko aur interesting bana dete hain.”

Puja:
“Jaise ki?”

Me:
“Roleplay. Aajkal bahut saare couples ye pasand karte hain.”

Puja:
“Roleplay? Wo kya hota hai?”

I couldn’t believe she didn’t even know this. My wife was so innocent—or maybe she was just pretending. Only God knew.

Me:
“Usmein couples different types ke roles play karte hain—different characters jaise doctor, driver, watchman, etc.”

Puja:
“Haan, to phir main kya banungi?”

Me:
“Nahi, aisa nahi hota. Ek hi character play karta hai, aur doosra original hi rehta hai.”

Puja:
“Matlab?”

Me:
“Matlab agar main character play karoon—jaise main doctor ya watchman banoon—aur tum Puja hi raho.”

Puja:
“Ggg… nahi! Mujhe nahi karna. Aise kaise main kisi aur ke saath sex karoon? Ye galat baat hai. Karna hai to dono ka character change hona chahiye.”

Me:
“Tum real mein kisi aur ke saath sex thodi kar rahi ho. Sex to main hi karunga. Bas ek character play kar raha hoon.”

Puja:
“Nahi… mujhse nahi hoga. Jo bhi ho, kisi aur ko imagine karna to padega na. Main nahi kar rahi.”

I panicked. If this failed, my entire plan would collapse.

Me:
“Haan, par ye bas ek story jaisa hoga. Jaise movies mein hota hai—heroine real life mein married hoti hai, phir bhi movie mein kisi aur se romance karti hai. Usmein bura kya hai? Wo thodi na real life mein apne husband ko cheat kar rahi hoti hai.”

Puja:
(She was silent for a moment, likely she was thinking something)
“Achha… theek hai. Tum keh rahe ho to kar lete hain. To kaunsa character play karoge?”

My happiness knew no bounds. The moment she agreed, my body reacted instantly. This was it. She was ready. I just had to keep moving forward slowly. One day, this roleplay would turn into real play.

Me:
“Jaan, tum batao. Tumhein kaunsa character pasand hai? Wahi karte hain.”
(Inside, I desperately wanted her to say ‘watchman’.)

Puja:
“Mujhe kya pata. Banna to aapko hai. Aap jo banna chaho, ban jao.”

Me:
“Achha, main options deta hoon—doctor, driver, ya watchman.”

Puja:
“Main choose nahi kar rahi. Aap jo banna chaho, ban lo.”
(I decided not to force it. I wanted the watchman role badly. If she picked something else, my entire planning would fail.)

Me:
“Achha… watchman wala karein?”

Puja:
“Haan, theek hai. Par mujhe kuch nahi pata kya karna hai, kya nahi. Aap jaise bataoge, main waise hi karungi.”

Me:
“Okay jaan. Par watchman ka naam kya hoga?”

Puja:
“Kya matlab naam kya hoga? Watchman watchman hi hoga. Naam ki kya zarurat?”

Me:
“Phir bhi, koi naam ho to conversation mein asaani hogi na.”

Puja:
“To Dev hi rakh lo. Aapko easy hoga.”

Me:
“Nahi… phir watchman wali feel nahi aayegi.”

Puja:
“To phir?”

Me:
“Aisa karte hain, koi proper watchman wala naam rakhte hain.”

Puja:
“Watchman wala naam kaisa hota hai?”

Me:
“Hamara yahan jo 2–3 watchman hain, unmein se koi rakh lete hain.”

Puja:
“Humein kaunsa naam pata hai unka!”

Me:
“Ek to pata hai.”

She fell completely silent. A deep blush spread across her face, born of sheer embarrassment. She lowered her gaze, and without looking up—

Puja:
“Nahi…”

Me:
“Kya hua?”

Puja:
“Wo… main nahi kar sakti. Duniya mein itne naam hain, wahi naam kyun?”

Me:
“Haan, to problem kya hai? Humein real mein thodi karna hai.”

Puja:
“Mujhe nahi karna.”

(There was a clear edge of irritation in her voice.)

Me:
“Par baby, problem kya hai? Bas naam hi to hai.”

Puja:
“Main nahi kar sakti. Hum unse roz milte hain, baat karte hain. Bahut awkward ho jaayega. Main face nahi kar paungi jab mere dimaag mein aayega ki main is character ke saath…”

(Then she became quite.)

Puja’s facial expression changed completely. She looked deeply embarrassed. But I didn’t want to ruin everything by forcing the situation. There was no urgency to push it all in one day—trying to do everything at once would only end in disaster. So I decided to move forward slowly and carefully.


Still, I knew one thing for sure: I didn’t want to do the watchman roleplay without Aslam Chacha being the reference. If I did a generic watchman roleplay now, then later—when Puja became more open—and I suggested the Aslam version, she would grow suspicious. She would wonder why I kept insisting on the watchman role again and again.


Me:
“Achha, theek hai jaan. Hum nahi kar rahe. Ab khush?”


Puja:
“Hubby… mujhe roleplay karne mein koi problem nahi hai, na hi watchman wala karne mein. Bas wo naam use nahi karna.”


Me:
“Okay meri jaan. Hum nahi kar rahe. Watchman wala bhi nahi. Aaj doctor wala karte hain.”


Slowly, a smile returned to Puja’s face. She began to relax and return to normal. Only then did I feel my own breath come back. Thank God—I had managed to handle it without breaking everything.

We started the doctor roleplay. But when, during foreplay, I slipped my hand under Puja’s dress and touched her underwear, I was shocked.

She was already wet.

She had become aroused even before the roleplay had truly begun.


What had triggered this so strongly? Was it the earlier discussion about the watchman roleplay? Had the mention of Aslam excited her? Was her body reacting differently from what her words expressed? Was she, deep down, excited about the Aslam version but held back by her self-respect and moral boundary?


So many questions flooded my mind.
And at that moment, I made up my mind—no matter what, I had to open Puja up completely.


That night, we had intense sex. She enjoyed the roleplay deeply. She climaxed far more times than usual. Inside my head, I kept thinking—if the doctor roleplay alone could affect her this much, then how powerful would the Aslam roleplay be? And if she ever actually slept with Aslam in reality… how far would she go then?

[AK0047]

After such an intense night, it was natural for Puja to wake up late. I woke up first and freshened up. 

When Puja finally got up, there was an extraordinary glow on her face, and her shy smile made it even more radiant. 

After last night’s intimacy, she had slept nude. My eyes drifted to her delicate body—she was still wet. Because of the moisture, her softness looked almost shiny.

Puja was still wet. That meant she must have had a wet dream during the night. Who had come into her dreams and taken her so deeply that she was still leaking? 

My body reacted instantly. I lay down beside her and pulled her into my arms, kissing her passionately. She was warm, and she responded eagerly, sucking my lips with intensity.


I moved my hand down and touched her wet pussy, then brought my fingers up and inhaled the scent left on them. The fragrance was intoxicating. 
Just thinking about whose name that moisture carried sent a rush through me. She became visibly shy again, her face turning red with embarrassment. 

I got up and started getting ready. Without even bathing, Puja prepared breakfast for me. I finished eating.
As I was about to leave, Puja handed me a list.


Puja:
“Hubby, ghar ka samaan khatam ho gaya hai. Aate waqt yeh le aana.”

Me:
“Aate waqt kyun? Abhi la deta hoon. Din mein zarurat pad sakti hai.”

Puja:
“Nahi, abhi nahi. Abhi main nahane ja rahi hoon.”

Me:
“Tum naha lo. Main samaan laa kar de dunga.”

Puja:
“Par main naha rahi houngi to door kaise kholungi? Phir mujhe kapde pehen kar aana padega.”

Me:
“Kapde kyun? Towel mein aa jaana. Mere saamne towel mein aa sakti ho na?”

Puja:
“Aa sakti hoon… par agar koi aur aa gaya to?”


A mischievous thought crossed my mind. I had been searching for a way to open Puja up, and she had unknowingly handed me the perfect opportunity. There couldn’t be a better moment to bring Aslam in front of her.


Me:
“Kaun aayega yahan? Main abhi gaya aur abhi aaya.”

Puja:
“Agar aap abhi jaoge to main ruk jaati hoon. Aap samaan laane ke baad naha lungi.”

Me:
“Arre nahi, tum naha lo. Waise bhi tumhara nahana late ho gaya hai. Mujhe aane mein bhi late ho sakta hai. Tab tak shayad tum naha chuki hogi.”

Puja:
“Okay, hubby.”

I left, smiling to myself. But then it hit me—this wasn’t Aslam’s duty timing. So what now? When I reached the gate, someone else was there.

Me:
“Tumhari duty subah hoti hai?”

Watchman:
“Haan, saab.”

Me:
“Aslam chacha nahi hain kya?”

Watchman:
“Haan, upar hain. Koi kaam tha kya, saab?”

Me:
“Haan, agar tum bula laoge to achha hoga. Waise tumhara naam kya hai?”

Watchman:
“Saab, mera naam Sakib hai. Abhi jaa kar bula laata hoon.”

It would take at least ten minutes for him to go and bring Aslam. I quickly bought the groceries. When I returned to the gate, Aslam was already there.

Aslam:
“Salam, saab. Aapne bulaya tha. Kya kaam tha?”

Me:
“Arey Aslam, main yahan naya hoon, to mujhe zyada idea nahi hai. Yahan achhi designer dress shop kaunsi hai?”


Aslam:
“Haan, saab. Market mein Qadir bhai ki shop hai. Wahan mast dresses mil jaayengi. Unki shop lehenga ke liye bahut famous hai.”


Me:
“Shukriya, Aslam. Bahut badi help ho gayi.”


Aslam:
“Par saab, dress kyun? Memsaab ke liye?”


Me:
“Haan, unka birthday aane wala hai isliye. Arre haan, baaton-baaton mein bhool gaya—yeh samaan ghar pahunchana tha. Mujhe office ke liye bhi late ho raha hai. Tum pahuncha doge kya?”


Calling someone down from the top floor just to ask about a dress would normally irritate anyone. But instead of anger, his expression changed into something else—happiness. There was a strange excitement on his face, as if he had just been handed something precious.


Aslam:
“Haan, saab. Kyun nahi. Aap kyun takleef karoge? Main pahunchaa deta hoon.”


He took the groceries from my hands himself, as if making sure I wouldn’t change my mind. Then he walked straight toward my flat. I headed to the office.


My body was fully aroused. The thought that Aslam would see Puja wrapped only in a towel made me hard to the extreme. At the office, I walked to my cabin holding my bag in front of me so no one would notice. The tension wouldn’t subside.


All day, my mind kept replaying one thought—what must Aslam’s reaction have been when he saw Puja in a towel? Puja had already gotten wet just from the previous roleplay discussion; today, it must have been a flood. And Aslam—his body must have reacted instantly too. How much pleasure must he have taken later, thinking of Puja?


The curiosity became unbearable. I couldn’t focus on work. Around 1:30, I called Puja. The phone rang, but she didn’t pick up. My heartbeat accelerated.


Had Aslam already taken control of her?

Were they on the bed right now—Aslam thrusting into her relentlessly?

[mr.commenter]

What is the point to translation when you write main dialogues in hindi ? Atleast give translation in brackets

[AK0047]

These thoughts made me so painfully aroused that it actually started to hurt. I rushed to the bathroom and relieved myself, imagining Aslam inside Puja, his body merging with hers. When I returned to my cabin, a strange unease crept into my mind. 

What if, at that very moment, my wife was actually being taken by another man? What if she was wrapping her lips around his dark length—the same lips I kissed every day? What if that body, marked with my name’s sindoor, was now responding to someone else, giving itself over completely?

Driven by this anxiety, I called her again. Still no response. Restless and distracted, I kept pacing around the office. My mind was nowhere near my work. Finally, around three o’clock, Puja called back. I answered immediately.


Me:
“Kahan thi? Mera call pick kyun nahi kar rahi thi?”


Puja:
“Arey, kya ho gaya! Aapko pata hai na 1 se 3 mera sone ka time hota hai. Main so rahi thi.”


I had become so consumed by the imagined encounter between them that I hadn’t even considered she might simply be asleep.


Me:
“Oh… tumne phone nahi uthaya to mujhe tension hone lagi.”

Puja:
“Achha, yeh batao, phone kyun kiya?”


Me:
“Kyun, main apni biwi ko call nahi kar sakta kya?”


Puja:
“Kar sakte ho, par aaj itni be-waqt?”

Me:
“Haan… woh maine samaan bhejwaya tha. Sab kuch hai na jo tumne bola tha?”

Puja (thoda gusse mein):
“Haan, par jab aapko hi aana tha to kisi aur se kyun bhejwaya?”


My body reacted instantly.

Me:
“Kyun, kya hua? Tumhara nahana khatam nahi hua tha kya?”

I was holding my breath, waiting desperately for her reply. After a brief pause, she answered.


Puja:
“Shukr hai main naha chuki thi aur dress change kar li thi. Agar aapki baat maan leti to pata nahi kya ho jaata.”

All the tension drained out of me at once. Everything I had planned—every fantasy—collapsed. My mood sank. I had done so much to bring them closer, and yet nothing had happened. We spoke briefly after that, and I hung up. The rest of the day passed in a dull haze.


When I finally returned home, Puja was sitting in the drawing room. She was wearing a saree, with light makeup. She looked beautiful—soft, elegant, and undeniably sexy.



I leaned in and kissed her. But unlike usual, she didn’t smile. It felt as if something was weighing on her mind.
I didn’t dwell on it much. We had dinner together. After dinner, as usual, I got ready for our evening walk—but Puja didn’t.


Me:
“Ready nahi ho rahi kya? Walk ke liye jaana hai… ya aaj seedha night suit mein hi jayengi?”

Puja:
“Hubby, aaj aap chale jao. Meri tabiyat thodi theek nahi lag rahi. Main nahi jaungi.”


Me:
“Jaan, kya hua? Chalo doctor ke paas chalte hain.”

Puja:
“Nahi, itna serious kuch nahi hai. Thoda rest kar lungi to theek ho jaungi.”


Not wanting to force her, I agreed and left alone.

When I reached the gate, Aslam chacha was there.

Me:
“Good evening, chacha.”

Aslam:
“Salam, sir.”

He seemed nervous—almost as if he was trying to avoid me.

Me:
“Chacha, Qadir bhai ka number de sakte ho? Shop jaane se pehle baat karni thi.”

Aslam:
“Haan, saab. Yeh lijiye.”

Today, he wasn’t smiling or chatting the way he usually did.

Me:
“Aur chacha, agar aap aaj nahi hote to office mein late hone ki wajah se mujhe fine lag jaata. Achha hua aap the, ghar ka samaan pahuncha diya.”

He looked momentarily confused, as if something didn’t add up.

Aslam:
“Saab… memsaab nahi aayi.”

Me:
“Haan, unki tabiyat theek nahi hai. Isliye rest kar rahi hain. Aaj main akela hoon.”

Slowly, I noticed his expression change. He began to relax—as if some fear had just been lifted.

Aslam:
“Saab, memsaab ko bolna apna dhyaan rakhein. Bahut nazuk si hain.”
(He added a faint, almost sly smile.)


Something felt off. He had been tense there, tense here—and then suddenly relaxed. What was going on? Had something happened after all? But Puja had said she was already done bathing. Was she lying? No… why would my wife lie to me?
Yet everything pointed toward something being wrong.


Had she started hiding things from me?


The thought alone was enough to make my body react again. I finished my walk and headed back home, my mind tangled in doubt and desire.

[AK0047]

What is the point to translation when you write main dialogues in hindi ? Atleast give translation in brackets

Actually when I had posted earlier 
Some were saying to keep the conversation in Hindi 

Don't worry further updates will have everything in English

[AK0047]

When I got home, I saw Puja absorbed in watching television. I could barely contain myself anymore. All I wanted, needed—was to check the CCTV footage and see what had truly happened. With Puja distracted by the TV, there couldn’t have been a better moment. I hurried to the desktop and first opened the bathroom recording.


Puja was standing under the shower—completely naked.
I see my wife’s nude body every day, and yet, watching her drenched beneath the falling water made my body react instantly. My arousal stirred on its own. She was carefully washing every part of herself, her wet skin gleaming under the light.




After a while, the doorbell rang.


My heartbeat spiked. Immediately, she wrapped a towel tightly around her body.



I was so hard it felt as if my trousers might tear apart. Then she walked toward the door. The wife who had told me she’d changed into clothes had, in reality, gone out wrapped in nothing but a towel—straight to Aslam chacha.


Whatever was about to happen would happen. Even now, pre-cum had begun to leak. As soon as she stepped out of the bathroom, I switched to the front-door camera.


Puja approached the gate wearing only a towel that barely reached her knees. It covered her chest just enough to hide her nipples—but the upper curve of her breasts was completely exposed.




The moment she opened the door, she froze.

Aslam chacha stood there, holding the groceries.





His jaw dropped.





His eyes locked onto Puja’s exposed breasts. Puja instantly flushed, overwhelmed by embarrassment. One hand that had been gripping the towel flew up to her hair, as if she didn’t know what to do with herself. Aslam was equally speechless. He simply extended the grocery bag toward her.

Confused and flustered, Puja stretched out her other hand to take the bag. The moment both her hands left the towel, it loosened. Slowly, it began slipping downward, brushing against her nipples as it fell.





I focused on Aslam’s reaction through the outdoor camera.

He was in shock—mouth open, saliva almost escaping. And then, unmistakably, a bulge formed in his trousers.






As he handed over the bag, his fingers brushed against Puja’s hand.




That brief contact was enough. The towel slid completely off her body and collapsed onto the floor.

By the time Puja realized what had happened, Aslam had already devoured her entire naked form with his eyes—every detail etched into his mind.

She slammed the door shut violently and leaned back against it, breathing heavily. Outside, the sudden closure jolted Aslam back to his senses. Unable to believe what he had just seen, he pushed against the door to check whether it was locked. Then, stunned and shaken, he walked away.






Inside, Puja ran straight to the bathroom. She turned on the tap and held herself directly beneath the flow, closing her eyes. Her body—especially between her legs—was burning hot. She kept herself under the cold water for two to three minutes until the heat finally subsided.

Watching all this, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I shut the system down and rushed to the bathroom, masturbating furiously. I climaxed so intensely that it shattered every previous record.

When I came back out, Puja was still watching TV. I sat down beside her, staring at her, thinking—today, my wife’s body became so inflamed for an older, dark-skinned man that she had to cool herself under running water for minutes. That was why she hadn’t gone for the walk. That was why she had made excuses about feeling unwell.

Me:
“So, how are you feeling now?”

Puja:
“Yeah… I took the medicine. I’m better.”

Me:
“And how was your day?”

Puja:
“It was… o-okay.”

Her voice had softened unnaturally. The smile had vanished from her face.

Me:
“And when will this phase pass? You don’t feel like coming to bed even now?”

Puja:
“No… let’s leave it today. Let’s sleep early.”

Earlier, when we spoke on the phone, she’d sounded irritated—but not this tense. Now she seemed deeply unsettled. Aslam too had appeared nervous earlier. But why? He hadn’t done anything wrong—he’d only delivered groceries. So why was he tense as well?

Had something else happened after that moment?

I had turned off the computer after watching the doorway scene—but the day hadn’t ended there. I needed to know what happened next.

Puja went to bed after a while. I told her I’d sit outside for some time and come in later. The moment she went inside, I switched the computer back on.

This time, I watched the later footage.

Puja emerged from the bathroom after thoroughly cleaning herself and changed into a saree. She cooked, ate, and rested. After waking up, she checked her phone. She made a call—it was with me. After that, she read something on her phone and replied.

Two or three minutes later, another message arrived.
She picked up the phone again.

For nearly fifteen to twenty minutes, she chatted with someone continuously. Then, about ten minutes later, her hand instinctively moved—over her clothes—toward her intimate area. She continued chatting while slowly rubbing herself through the fabric.

 

After five minutes, she placed the phone on the bed and rushed to the bathroom. She hurriedly removed her underwear and threw it aside.


 

Then she began rubbing herself intensely.
Soon after, she turned on the tap and positioned herself under the running water again.




At that very moment, I had barely touched myself when I climaxed uncontrollably. My trousers were completely soaked. I ran to the bathroom and stripped them off.


My eyes fell on the bathtub—where Puja had thrown her underwear. I picked it up. It was completely saturated with dried discharge—stiff and heavy.

That alone revealed how intensely aroused she had been.
Then a thought struck me—who was she talking to?
Was it Aslam chacha?

He had given her his number too.

What kind of conversation had taken place that left my deeply loving wife touching herself uncontrollably? What words had he said that made her body betray itself so completely?

There was only one way to find out.

I would have to unlock Puja’s phone and read those messages.

What had Aslam said that made my wife’s hand drift to herself on its own? That made her soak her underwear beyond capacity?

Lost in these thoughts, I don’t even remember when I fell asleep.