Adultery Wife's Submission to husband's Enemy

[Pattaasu Balu]

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The night refused to end.

Vikram didn’t rush. That was the cruelest part. He let silence settle after the fourth round — only the soft drip

of the last melting ice cube in the crystal bowl and Shailaja’s uneven, hiccuping breaths filled the penthouse.

On the monitor, Karthik remained exactly where he’d been ordered: naked, kneeling, semen drying in sticky

streaks on his thighs and the carpet, shoulders trembling with aftershocks of shame. His cock hung soft and

spent between his legs, yet it twitched faintly every time Shailaja whimpered.

Vikram crouched beside the bed. Traced one fingertip through the obscene mess leaking from between her

thighs — the pale swirl of his cum mixed with crystalline meltwater — then brought that glistening finger to

her lips.


“Clean it,” he said quietly.


Shailaja’s tongue darted out instantly. She sucked the finger deep, eyes fluttering closed, tasting salt and

frost and her own ruined arousal. A tiny, broken moan vibrated around his knuckle.


“Good girl,” he murmured. “Your husband is watching you lick another man’s cum off my finger while wearing

the mangalsutra he tied around your neck.”


Karthik made a small, wounded sound — half sob, half plea.






Vikram stood. Walked to the bedside table. This time he didn’t reach for ice.

He lifted a slim black velvet pouch.

Inside: three smooth, heavy glass plugs graduated in size, each one chilled to near-freezing in the bowl

earlier. The largest was unmistakably thick — almost obscene for anal use without long, patient preparation.

Shailaja’s eyes widened when she saw it.

“No…” The word slipped out involuntarily — soft, frightened, aroused.

Vikram smiled. “Yes.”






He returned to the bed. Flipped her gently but firmly onto her stomach. Pulled two thick pillows under her

hips so her ass lifted high, presented. The camera tripod had the perfect angle: her face turned sideways

toward the lens, mangalsutra dangling, heavy breasts squashed against charcoal sheets, thighs spread, pussy

still gaping and leaking.

He poured a thin stream of chilled lube directly onto her untouched rear hole. She flinched at the cold.

“Relax,” he told her — almost kindly. “Or it will hurt more.”


First came the smallest plug.

He pressed the rounded, icy tip against her resistance. Circled. Pushed.

Shailaja hissed through clenched teeth. Her fingers clawed silk sheets.

“Tell your husband how it feels,” Vikram ordered.

“C-cold…” she gasped. “Stretching… so full already… and it’s only the small one…”

He twisted it in slowly — millimeter by millimeter — until the flared base kissed her rim.



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She shuddered violently. A long, quivering moan poured out.

Karthik’s breathing hitched audibly over the speakers.

Vikram left the small plug seated. Reached for the medium one — noticeably thicker.

He removed the first with a wet pop. Shailaja yelped at the sudden emptiness.

Before she could recover he pressed the second against her — colder, wider.

This time she screamed outright when the widest part breached her — sharp, startled, rising into a long wail:

“TOO THICK… AHHH… IT BURNS… COLD… AHHHHHH!”

He didn’t pause. Kept steady pressure until it sank home. Her back arched like a bow. Thighs shook. Fresh

tears tracked down her cheeks.

“Look at the camera,” Vikram said. “Let him see your face while another man trains your ass.”

Shailaja turned her head. Eyes glassy, mascara streaked, lips swollen and parted. She stared straight into the

lens — straight at Karthik — while her body trembled around the frozen intrusion.

Vikram tapped his phone.

The monitor split-screened: one half showed Shailaja’s wrecked expression and raised ass; the other showed

Karthik’s face — mouth open in silent horror, fresh tears spilling, cock stirring traitorously back to half-

hardness despite having come minutes earlier.

“Touch yourself,” Vikram told him. “Slow strokes. No coming. Just edge while I open your wife’s virgin ass for

my cock.”

Karthik obeyed instantly. Hand wrapping his reviving shaft. Slow, tortured pulls. Whimpers leaking from his

throat.

Vikram gripped the base of the medium plug. Began to fuck her with it — shallow thrusts at first, then deeper,

twisting on every withdrawal so the cold glass dragged against sensitive inner walls.

Shailaja’s screams turned rhythmic — punched out of her with each thrust:


“Ah! … Ahh! … AHHH! … PLEASE… TOO DEEP… TOO COLD… DON’T STOP… AHHHH!”







She came without warning — ass clenching brutally around the plug, pussy gushing fresh slick onto the

sheets, a high, shattered keen ripping from her throat.

Vikram pulled the plug free. Her hole gaped for a moment — pink, glistening, twitching — before slowly trying

to close.

He didn’t give it time.

The largest plug — brutally thick, heavily flared, still icy — was already in his hand.

Shailaja began shaking her head frantically. “No… no no no… it won’t fit… please…”

“It will,” Vikram said simply.

He pressed.

She screamed — long, animal, throat-scbanging — as the widest part forced her open. Her entire body locked.

Toes curled. Fingers tore at sheets.

“BREATHE,” he commanded.

She tried. Failed. Another piercing wail.

Inch by frozen inch he sank it inside until only the wide base remained visible, stretching her rim to its limit.





Shailaja sobbed openly now — great, heaving cries mixed with helpless moans.

Vikram leaned over her. Kissed the nape of her neck almost tenderly.

“You took it all,” he whispered. “Such a good slut for me.”

He left it seated. Climbed behind her. Aligned his cock with her dripping pussy.

And thrust in — one long, merciless slide.

The double fullness — thick cock stretching her cunt, massive chilled plug filling her ass — destroyed her.

Her scream cracked the air — raw, endless: “FULL… SO FULL… I CAN FEEL BOTH… AHHHHHH… RIPPING ME

APART… VIKRAM… FUCK… AAAAAAHHHHHH!”

He fucked her like that — hard, possessive strokes — the plug shifting with every thrust, pressing against the

thin wall that separated cock from glass. Each movement sent icy shocks radiating through her core.

She came again almost immediately — violently — pussy spasming, ass clenching so hard around the plug

that Vikram groaned.

He didn’t stop.







Flipped her onto her back. Legs pushed back until her knees framed her face — obscene, exposed angle. The

plug’s base now clearly visible between her cheeks.

He re-entered her cunt in this position — deeper, more punishing.

Every downward stroke drove the plug even harder against her front wall.

She couldn’t form words anymore — only continuous, hoarse screams and broken sobs.

Karthik was openly weeping on the monitor — stroking frantically, hips jerking, begging: “Please… let me

come again… I can’t… I need… please…”

Vikram looked straight into the camera while pounding Shailaja.

“Come,” he ordered. “But this time say it clearly: ‘Thank you, Vikram, for fucking my wife better than I ever

could.’”

Karthik broke instantly.

“Thank you… Vikram… for fucking my wife… better than I ever could…” Voice splintered. “Please… keep fucking

her… ruin her… she’s yours…”

He erupted — weaker spurts this time, body shaking, face a mask of utter degradation.

Vikram smiled.

Pulled out of Shailaja’s cunt. Gripped the base of the massive plug.

And began to fuck her ass with it — fast, brutal — while his other hand rubbed vicious circles over her swollen

clit.

She detonated — longest, loudest scream of the entire night — body seizing, squirting hard across his wrist

and the sheets, ass pulsing around glass, pussy empty and clenching on nothing.






Only then did he remove the plug — slow, deliberate — letting her feel every ridge as it left her gaping.

He slid back into her pussy for a final time.

Fucked her through the aftershocks — slow now, deep, grinding.

When he came it was with a low, possessive growl — flooding her again while she whimpered his name like a

prayer.

Afterward he didn’t pull out immediately.

He stayed buried inside her. Reached for the last large ice cube remaining in the bowl.

Pressed it flat against her overstimulated clit.

She jerked, gave one last shattered scream — weak, exhausted, euphoric.

Then silence.

Only panting.

Vikram finally eased out. A thick river followed — cum, meltwater, her own release.

He gathered her against his chest — bridal carry — and turned so they both faced the camera.

“Look at your wife, Karthik,” he said softly. “Completely mine tonight. Marked inside and out. Still shivering

from ice and cock.”

Shailaja’s eyes fluttered open. Met her husband’s on the screen.

She didn’t speak.

She only looks — small, wrecked, radiant — and whispered two words:

“I am sorry karthik?”

Karthik’s sob was answer enough.

Outside, the Gurgaon skyline glittered on — indifferent.

Inside the penthouse the night finally, reluctantly, began to fade.

But the hunger — theirs, all three of them — only grew sharper.





And Vikram order to Karthik your wife will be there by 1 hour. By that one hour you have to stay nude... Once she come lick my cum drenching


from your wife's pussy......karthik replied yes sir....




To be continued...

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The first light of dawn crept through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Vikram's Gurgaon penthouse, casting a

pale, unforgiving glow over the scene. Shailaja lay curled in his arms, her body limp and spent, the

mangalsutra around her neck a stark reminder of the vows she'd shattered that night. Her skin was flushed,

marked with faint red imprints from his hands, and between her thighs, a sticky mixture of cum, lube, and

melted ice still oozed slowly, pooling on the silk sheets beneath her. Vikram held her in that bridal carry, his

own body glistening with sweat, his cock soft now but still twitching occasionally against her hip. On the

monitor, Karthik's face was a portrait of devastation—eyes red-rimmed, cheeks streaked with tears, his spent

semen drying in humiliating streaks on his thighs. He'd come twice under Vikram's command, each time

degrading himself further, and now he knelt there, broken and aroused in equal measure.

Vikram's voice cut through the quiet like a blade, low and commanding. "Shailaja, listen carefully. The night is

over, but our game isn't. When you get home, you're not to shower or clean yourself. Do you understand?"

She nodded weakly against his chest, her breath still ragged. "Y-yes..."

"Good." He shifted her slightly, so her face was angled toward the camera again. "Karthik will be waiting for

you. And when you walk through that door, he's going to clean you. Every drop of my cum that's dripping

from your cunt and your ass—he's going to lick it up. Use his tongue like the devoted cuckold he is. Make him

taste how thoroughly I've claimed his wife."

Shailaja's eyes widened, a fresh shiver running through her. The thought was obscene, humiliating for both

her and Karthik, but it sent a dark thrill straight to her core. On the screen, Karthik whimpered, his head

bowing lower, but his cock gave a traitorous twitch.

Vikram's lips curled into a predatory smile. "And I'll be watching. Set up the video call the moment you arrive.

I want to see every second—his tongue lapping at your ruined holes, swallowing my seed mixed with your

arousal. If he hesitates, remind him who owns you both now."

Karthik's voice crackled over the speakers, barely audible. "Please... Vikram... I-I'll do it..."

"Of course you will," Vikram replied coolly. "Because you love it. You love knowing your wife's body is filled with

another man's cum, and you'll savor cleaning her like the pathetic cleanup boy you are."

He set Shailaja down gently on the bed, her legs wobbling as she tried to sit up. The massive plug had left her

ass sore and gaping slightly, a dull ache that pulsed with every movement. Vikram dressed her methodically—

slipping her back into the red saree she'd arrived in, the fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin. No panties,

no bra; she felt exposed, the evidence of their night seeping down her inner thighs as she stood. He

smoothed her hair, wiped the smudged mascara from her cheeks with a tenderness that contrasted the

brutality of hours before.

"Go home to your husband," he murmured, pressing a final kiss to her forehead. "And remember: next time, I

come to you. I'll fuck you in your own marital bed, right in front of him. No screens, no distance. He'll watch up

close as I ruin you again."

Shailaja's pulse raced at the promise, her body already aching for more despite the exhaustion. She glanced

at the monitor one last time—Karthik's eyes locked on hers, a mix of despair and desperate longing. Then

Vikram escorted her to the door, calling a cab for her with his app. As the elevator descended, she leaned

against the wall, feeling the cool air tease her sensitive skin, the sticky warmth between her legs a constant

reminder.

The drive back to their modest apartment in Sector 56 felt eternal. Gurgaon's morning traffic was just stirring

—commuters in sedans, auto-rickshaws honking, the skyline fading into smog. Shailaja sat in the back seat,

thighs pressed together to stem the slow drip, but it was futile. By the time she paid the driver and climbed

the stairs to their third-floor flat, her saree was damp at the hem, her ass throbbing from the plugs' earlier

assault. Her hands trembled as she unlocked the door.


Karthik was there, waiting in the living room, still naked as Vikram had commanded during the call. He'd

cleaned up his own mess from the floor, but his face was pale, eyes hollow from the sleepless night. The

moment she entered, he dropped to his knees, crawling toward her like a supplicant.

"Shailu..." His voice broke. "Did he... did he hurt you?"

She shook her head, though her body screamed otherwise. "No. It was... intense." She pulled out her phone,

propping it up on the coffee table, and initiated the video call to Vikram. It connected almost immediately—

his face appearing on the screen, relaxed in his penthouse, a glass of whiskey in hand despite the early hour.

"Right on time," Vikram said, his tone approving. "Show me."

Shailaja moved to the couch, hiking up her saree as she sat, spreading her legs wide. The camera captured

everything—the swollen, reddened lips of her pussy, still leaking a pearlescent mix of cum and her own juices;

the slight gape of her ass, slick with lube and residue. Karthik hesitated for a split second, his cheeks burning

with shame.

"Do it," Vikram ordered sharply. "Clean her. Start with her ass."

Karthik leaned in, his breath hot against her skin. Shailaja gasped as his tongue made first contact—tentative

at first, lapping at the outer rim where the lube had dried. The taste hit him: salty, musky, unmistakably

Vikram's cum mixed with the faint chill of melted ice. He groaned, a sound of pure humiliation, but he didn't

stop. His tongue delved deeper, circling the stretched hole, sucking gently to draw out every drop.

Shailaja's head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Oh god... Karthik... that's... good..."

Vikram chuckled over the call. "Look at him, Shailaja. Your husband on his knees, eating another man's cum

from your ass. Tell me, does it feel right?"
"
Yes," she whispered, her fingers threading through Karthik's hair, pulling him closer. "It feels... perfect."

Emboldened—or broken—Karthik worked more fervently, his tongue thrusting inside her ass, cleaning every

crevice. The sensation was electric, her body still hypersensitive from the night's torments. She rocked her

hips slightly, grinding against his face, fresh arousal building despite the soreness.

"Now her cunt," Vikram directed. "Make sure you swallow it all. I want her spotless for next time."


Karthik shifted upward, his nose brushing her clit as his mouth covered her pussy. He sucked greedily now,

tongue scooping out the thick globs of cum that had pooled deep inside. The flavor was overwhelming—

Vikram's essence, her sweetness, the faint tang of lube. He whimpered against her, his own cock hardening

again, bobbing untouched between his legs.

Shailaja cried out, her orgasm building fast. "Karthik... yes... clean me... taste how he filled me..."

Vikram's voice was a growl. "Edge yourself while you do it, Karthik. Stroke, but don't come. That's my privilege."

Karthik's hand wrapped around his shaft, pumping slowly as he devoured her. Shailaja came with a sharp cry,

her juices flooding his mouth, mixing with the remnants of Vikram's load. He swallowed it all, tears streaming

down his face, his body trembling on the edge of release.

"Enough," Vikram said finally. "You've done well. Shailaja, rest now. Karthik—thank me."

"Thank you, Vikram," Karthik rasped, his voice hoarse. "For... for letting me clean her."

The call ended. Shailaja pulled Karthik up, kissing him deeply, tasting the mingled flavors on his lips. They

collapsed together on the couch, exhausted, entwined in a twisted embrace. The day passed in a haze—work

calls ignored, meals skipped, just the two of them processing the night's events. Karthik was gentle,

massaging her sore muscles, whispering apologies and confessions of how aroused it had made him. Shailaja

reassured him, her own mind racing toward the promise of "next time."

[HOTBABY]

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Kya husband ko bhi badla lene ka moka milega apne dushman se biwi ya beti to uski bhi hogi

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