Misc. Erotica Santhosh’s Funeral

[novelistcasanova]

Santhosh’s Funeral

I still remember those ordinary days clearly.


Our house stood in a quiet, well-planned layout off Outer Ring Road. Not flashy, but solid—the kind of independent house that told people I had arrived. A small garden in front, polished wooden flooring inside that stayed cool underfoot even in the Bangalore heat, a large sit-out that caught the evening breeze, and a bedroom upstairs where the air-conditioner hummed softly every night. The living room had a heavy wooden sofa set, a large television, and a glass showcase filled with the usual things—framed photographs, a few silver articles, and the small brass lamp my wife lit every evening. Everything was neat, well-kept, upper-middle-class comfort without unnecessary show.
I came home most evenings in a sharp suit, gold chain resting against my chest, the weight of court cases still on my shoulders. Clients waited outside my chamber. Inspectors nodded when they saw me. Money moved when I spoke. At thirty-six I had built a name as a criminal advocate who could handle difficult matters, and the house reflected that quiet success.
And then there was my wife.
My wife of eight years. Tamil, soft-spoken, the kind of woman who still touched my feet on festival mornings and kept a small lamp lit near the tulsi plant near the sit-out. She moved through the house with a quiet grace that never failed to catch my eye. Fair complexion that glowed under the tube light. A face that looked almost sculpted—high cheekbones, large dark eyes that lowered whenever I stared too long, full lips that parted slightly when she concentrated. Her long black hair, always oiled and plaited thick, rested heavily down her back. When she walked, the weight of it swayed with her hips.
Her body was the real trouble.
Heavy, full breasts that strained against every blouse she wore. A narrow waist that flared into wide, soft hips and a round, heavy backside that filled her saree perfectly. Thick thighs that brushed against each other when she moved. Even in the simplest cotton saree she looked ripe, almost too much for the quiet life we lived. The mangalsutra sat nestled in the soft valley between her breasts, the gold chain rising and falling with every breath. I used to watch her from the sofa while she made filter coffee in the morning—blouse stretched tight across those heavy breasts, petticoat tied low below her navel the way her mother had taught her, the soft roll of her stomach visible for a second whenever she reached up.
“Coffee ready,” she would call softly from the kitchen, her voice carrying that familiar shyness.
I would walk in, stand behind her for a moment, and rest my hands on her waist. She always tensed a little, then relaxed.
“You’re late again today,” she would say, not looking at me, focusing on the filter.
“Court went long. Come here.”
She would turn, eyes lowered, and let me pull her close. Those heavy breasts pressed against my chest through the blouse. I could feel the warmth of her body, the soft give of her stomach, the way her hips filled my hands. She would blush deeply, the way she always did.
“Rajesh… the milk will boil over,” she would whisper, but she never pushed me away.
At night she would lie beside me in a simple nightie, hair loose across the pillow, and let me take her slowly under the ceiling fan. Soft moans. Soft hands on my back. The kind of married sex that felt safe and familiar.
“Slowly…” she would breathe against my neck when I pushed deeper.
“You feel so good,” I would tell her, and she would hide her face in my shoulder, embarrassed even after eight years.
I thought that was enough.
I thought I knew every quiet corner of our life.
I hated the way men looked at her.
It happened everywhere.
At the vegetable market near our house, when my wife walked ahead of me in a simple cotton saree, the vendor’s eyes would drop straight to her heavy breasts and stay there a second too long. The way the blouse stretched across them, the deep line of her cleavage where the mangalsutra rested, the soft bounce with every step—nothing was hidden if a man wanted to look. I would clear my throat loudly, place my hand on her waist, and pull her closer. The vendor would quickly look away, but I had already seen it.
“Why do you stare like that?” I once snapped at a young man near the temple steps.
He muttered an apology and hurried off. My wife touched my arm gently.
“Leave it, Rajesh. He didn’t mean anything,” she said in that soft voice.
But I had seen the way his eyes moved over her wide hips and the round shape of her backside under the tightly dbangd saree. I knew exactly what he meant.
Even in our own relative’s houses it happened. During some function, when she bent slightly to adjust her pallu or to serve something, the men sitting nearby would glance—some quickly, some not quickly enough. Her thick thighs would press together under the saree, the soft curve of her stomach visible for a moment when the blouse rode up, and those full breasts would shift heavily with the movement. I would feel my jaw tighten.
One evening we went to a small restaurant in Indiranagar. My wife wore a dark blue saree with a matching blouse that fit her too well. As we walked to our table, two men at the next table openly watched her. One of them smirked and said something to the other. I heard the word “figure.”
I stopped walking.
“What did you say?” I asked, voice low and hard.
Both men looked away immediately. My wife caught my wrist.
“Please… don’t create a scene,” she whispered, eyes lowered. “People are watching.”
I sat down, still burning. Throughout the meal I kept noticing how the waiter’s eyes kept returning to her chest whenever he came to the table. Every time she leaned forward slightly to take something, those heavy breasts pushed against the blouse, and I wanted to stand up and drag her out of there.
In the car on the way home I finally spoke.
“You don’t see how they look at you?”
She kept her face turned toward the window.
“I notice… sometimes. But what can I do, Rajesh? I dress properly.”
“Properly is not enough when your body is like this,” I said, my hand resting on her thigh over the saree. I could feel the soft warmth of her thick leg under the saree. “Every man wants to stare. I hate it.”
She didn’t reply. Only after a long silence she said quietly,
“I only dress for you.”
That night, after we reached home, I took her upstairs without waiting. I pushed the nightie up, unhooked her bra roughly, and buried my face between those heavy breasts while she held my head. I fucked her harder than usual, almost angry, as if I could erase every other man’s eyes from her body.
She came with a soft, surprised cry, arms tight around me.
Afterwards she lay against my chest, fingers tracing the gold chain on my neck.
“You get so angry when others look,” she whispered. “I like that you get angry.”
I didn’t tell her the full truth.
I hated their eyes on her.
But a small, dirty part of me had started noticing how her body looked under those stares… and that disturbed me more than the staring itself.
My wife almost always wore sarees.
At home, outside, for temple, for market, for relative visits—saree was her default. Simple cotton sarees for daily use, silk sarees for functions. She never complained. She said she felt comfortable in them, that her mother had raised her that way. I never forced it, but I also never asked her to change. The truth was I liked it. The way a well-dbangd saree clung to her heavy breasts and wide hips, the way the pallu sometimes slipped and needed adjusting, the soft outline of her stomach when the blouse rode up slightly—everything about it suited her body too well.
In the mornings I would watch her from the bed as she got ready. She would stand in front of the mirror in just her petticoat and the Layered Coverage bra—seamed, panelled, double-layered, full coverage, non-wired, non-padded, 100% cotton—adjusting the straps over her shoulders. Those heavy breasts filled the cups completely, the soft flesh rising with every breath. Then she would take the saree, tuck it firmly at the waist below her navel, and start pleating. By the time she finished, the saree would be stretched smooth across her round backside and thick thighs. She looked proper. Respectable. And still somehow too much for ordinary eyes.
Outside the house it was the same. Whether we went to the temple or to a relative’s function, she stepped out only in a saree. I liked walking beside her knowing every man who looked would see a properly dressed Tamil wife… and still not be able to stop staring at the shape under the saree.
At night it was different.
The moment the outer door was locked, the saree came off. She would change into a simple nightie—usually soft cotton nightie, sometimes a little loose at the neck—and underneath she wore only panties. No bra. Her heavy breasts hung freely under the nightie, the dark outlines of her nipples visible if the light hit her a certain way. When she walked to the bathroom or came to bed, they swayed with every step. I used to lie there and watch, already hard, waiting for her to climb in beside me.
“Come here,” I would say.
She would climb onto the bed, nightie riding up her thick thighs, and settle against me. My hand would immediately slide under the nightie and cup one full breast, feeling the soft weight with nothing between my palm and her breast.
“Rajesh…” she would whisper, half shy, half already melting.
Only in the last few months had she started wearing something else.
One afternoon she came out of the bedroom in a long kurti and black leggings. The kurti was modest, but it still followed the heavy curve of her breasts and the soft roundness of her stomach. The leggings clung tightly to her wide hips and thick thighs, showing the full shape of her backside in a way the saree never did so openly.
I stopped what I was doing and stared.
“What is this?” I asked.
She looked down at herself, a little unsure.
“I saw other women wearing this… for going to the market. It’s easier. Shall I change?”
“No,” I said after a moment. “Wear it.”
She wore the kurti and leggings a few more times after that—only for quick market trips or when she had to go down to the society office. But at home and for any proper outing, the saree returned. And at night, it was always the same: nightie, no bra, only panties, those heavy breasts free and soft under the nightie, waiting for my hands.
I told myself I preferred the saree.
I told myself the nightie was only for me.
I didn’t yet understand how much those small changes, and the way men looked at her in every type of clothing, were already starting to work on something inside me.


One afternoon the call came.
I was sitting in the living room, still in my shirt from court, when my phone rang. It was my cousin from the Ulsoor side. His voice was flat.
“Rajesh… Santhosh is gone. Accident on Hosur road. Kasiammal and Chellappan also. All three.”
I didn’t speak for a few seconds.
Santhosh. My uncle’s only son. The same Santhosh who had openly disrespected me two years ago at a family function—raising his voice, questioning my decisions in front of others, acting as if my position as an advocate meant nothing. I had not forgotten. I had only waited.
Now he was dead. Along with his mother Kasiammal and father Chellappan. Brutal car accident. No survivors.
I felt nothing at first. Then a slow, quiet satisfaction settled in my chest.
My wife came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her saree. She saw my face and stopped.
“What happened?” she asked.
I told her.
Her eyes immediately filled. She sat down on the sofa, one hand covering her mouth.
“Aiyyo… all three? Santhosh also? He was so young…”
She meant it. I could see it. Real sorrow. The kind only she seemed capable of feeling in this family.
I called a few relatives. The reactions were different.
My other uncle said, “What to do, Rajesh. These things happen. We have to go.” His tone was empty. Duty only.
Another cousin muttered, “Karma. Santhosh never respected elders. See what happened.”
Someone else said the same thing almost word for word. “It is karma only. The way he spoke to people… this is the result.”
No one cried on the phone. No one sounded broken. They were already discussing who would arrange the hall, who would inform the others, who would handle the body. Attendance for name’s sake. That was all.
My wife sat quietly, still processing.
“We should go, no?” she said softly. “They are family.”
“We will go,” I replied.
I didn’t tell her the truth.
I was glad Santhosh was dead.
The boy who had raised his voice at me in front of the entire family, who had smirked when I spoke, who had treated my hard-earned position like nothing—now he was gone. Burnt or broken on the Hosur road along with his parents. I felt no grief. Only a cold, private relief.
That night my wife barely ate. She kept repeating how young Santhosh was, how sudden it was, how Kasiammal used to speak to her kindly during previous visits. I listened, nodded, and said the right things.
Inside, I felt nothing for them.
Only the quiet knowledge that one man who had disrespected me was no longer in this world.
The next morning my wife came out of the bedroom wearing a white kurti top and white leggings. The kurti was plain and modest, but it still followed the heavy curve of her breasts and the soft roundness of her stomach. The white leggings clung tightly to her wide hips and thick thighs. She had left her long black hair loose for once, and the mangalsutra rested clearly against the front of the kurti.
“This is okay, no?” she asked, looking at me. “White is proper for this.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Come. We should leave.”
We drove to Santhosh’s house in Ulsoor. The place was already filling with people. Relatives stood in small groups, talking in low voices. Some women were crying loudly for show. Most of the men looked bored, already checking their phones. Name-sake attendance, exactly as I had expected.
My wife walked ahead of me into the house. I followed.
That was when I noticed him.
A dark-skinned, ugly stranger standing near the entrance. Broad shoulders, rough face, the kind of man who looked out of place among the family. His eyes were fixed on my wife. Not a quick glance. A slow, open stare that moved from her face down to her heavy breasts under the white kurti top, then lower to the tight white leggings stretched across her wide hips and thick thighs. He didn’t even try to hide it.
I felt the usual irritation rise… but I said nothing yet.
My wife went inside to where the bodies were kept. Santhosh, Kasiammal and Chellappan lay side by side. She stood there for a long time, eyes filling, one hand covering her mouth. She looked genuinely broken. After a few minutes she moved away from the others and stood alone near a corner of the hall, wiping her eyes, head slightly bowed.
The ugly stranger followed her.
I watched from a short distance as he approached. He said something soft. My wife looked up, nodded once, and then—without resistance—he pulled her into a full embrace.
Both his arms went around her completely.
One hand pressed against her upper back. The other settled lower, firm on the soft curve of her waist just above her hip. Her heavy breasts crushed against his chest through the white kurti top. Her face turned into his shoulder. And instead of pulling away, my wife raised her own arms and hugged him back.
They stayed like that.
Longer than any consolation required.
I should have felt anger. I should have walked over and pulled her away. That was what I had always done when other men looked at her too long.
But something else happened.
A slow, unexpected heat moved through my stomach and settled lower. My cock began to thicken inside my trousers as I watched the ugly stranger hold my wife’s body against his. The way her wide hips pressed forward, the way her arms stayed around him, the way her heavy breasts were flattened against his chest—I could not look away.
The irritation I expected never came.
Instead, something darker and hungrier stirred inside me.
The ugly stranger did not stop at a normal hug.
While still holding my wife, he slowly guided both her arms upward and wrapped them around his neck. Her hands rested against the back of his head. Then he pulled her even tighter into his complete embrace, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. From where I stood it looked like deep mourning—his face lowered near her hair, body slightly curved over hers—but I could see the truth in the way he held her.
He was enjoying it.
One of his hands slid down from her waist and openly grabbed her ass over the white kurti. His fingers sank into the soft, heavy flesh, squeezing once, then again. My wife did not pull away. She stayed pressed against him, her face still hidden against his shoulder, hugging him back with the same naïve, innocent softness she always showed when someone was in pain.
The hand on her ass moved again.
This time it slipped slowly under the white kurti from below. I watched the kurti rise a little at the back as his palm went underneath and settled directly on her ass over the white leggings. His fingers spread wide, pressing and feeling the full round shape. Then, still under the kurti, they began tracing slowly along the clear lines of her panties through the tight white leggings—following the edges, pressing into the soft flesh on either side, mapping the shape of her panties without rushing.
My cock was fully hard now.
The sight of that dark, ugly hand under my wife’s white kurti, openly feeling the panty lines on her ass while she hugged him back so innocently, sent a thick heat straight through me. I should have been furious. Instead I stood frozen, breathing harder, watching every small movement of his fingers.
Someone from the family called out.
“Sudha… come here a minute.”
My wife immediately stepped back. The stranger’s hand slipped out from under the kurti. She quickly adjusted the white kurti, pulling it down properly over her hips and backside, smoothing the front with both hands as if nothing had happened. Her face was still wet with tears, expression soft and genuine.
She walked toward the relatives who had called her, leaving the ugly stranger standing alone near the corner.
I remained where I was, trousers tight, pulse heavy in my throat, the image of his hand under her white kurti burned into my mind.
I waited until my wife had moved further away with the relatives. Then I walked straight toward the dark-skinned stranger.
He was still standing near the corner, eyes following her as she walked. When I came close he finally looked at me.
“I’m Rajesh,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Advocate. Santhosh was my uncle’s son.”
He nodded once and offered his hand.
“Arjun.”
I shook it. His grip was firm, rough.
“How are you connected to the family?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”
Arjun’s eyes flicked past my shoulder for a second, finding my wife again before returning to me.
“I was the one who saw the accident,” he said. “I was driving behind them on the Hosur road. The car lost control, hit the divider, then another vehicle. I stopped and called the ambulance. By the time help came… Santhosh was already gone. The way his body was trapped… it was brutal. Kasiammal and Chellappan also. I stayed till the security officer came. Later someone from the family asked me to come today.”
He spoke smoothly, with just enough detail to sound genuine. A neat, ready story. I listened without interrupting, watching his face. He didn’t look nervous. He looked comfortable.
While he spoke, his eyes kept drifting back to my wife. She was standing with a group of women now, still in the white kurti top and white leggings, wiping her eyes occasionally. Arjun’s gaze moved openly over her heavy breasts, then down to the tight white leggings stretched across her wide hips and thick thighs.
I felt the same thick heat return to my stomach.
After a moment I lowered my voice and asked, almost casually,
“The woman in the white kurti… you were speaking to her earlier.”
Arjun’s mouth curved slightly.
“Yes.”
I kept my tone light, almost naughty, without revealing anything.
“What do you think of her?”
He glanced at her once more, then leaned a little closer and whispered,
“Very hot. Body like that… heavy breasts, thick ass, those legs in white leggings. Looks soft and full everywhere. The way she hugged back… innocent face but the body is pure sex.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
My cock twitched inside my trousers. Hearing this ugly stranger describe my wife’s body so openly, so crudely, while she stood only a few feet away still wiping her tears, sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I should have felt insulted. Instead I only felt harder.
I didn’t correct him.
I didn’t tell him she was my wife.
I simply stood there, nodding once, letting the dirty words settle inside me while Arjun’s eyes returned to her again.
My wife shifted her weight from one leg to the other while talking to the women. The movement made her heavy backside roll slowly under the white kurti. The tight white leggings stretched and eased with every small step she took.
Arjun’s eyes followed the movement without shame.
He leaned closer again, voice low.
“Look at that ass when she moves… full and heavy. The way it shifts inside those white leggings. Soft. Thick. The kind of ass that fills both hands.”
I felt my throat go dry.
Instead of stopping him, I kept my voice quiet and asked,
“How does it look from here?”
Arjun’s mouth curved.
“Round. Heavy at the bottom. When she walked earlier the cheeks moved separately under the leggings. You can see the shape of her panties clearly when the kurti lifts even a little. Deep line between them. Soft flesh on both sides. Looks like it would bounce if someone slapped it.”
My cock pulsed hard inside my trousers.
I should have shut him up. Instead I pushed a little more.
“And when you held her…?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“When I put my hand under the kurti, the ass was even softer than it looks. Full. Warm. My fingers sank in. I followed the panty lines with my hand… the edges were sitting deep in the soft flesh. She didn’t even notice. Just kept hugging me like a proper innocent wife while I felt her ass properly.”
I exhaled slowly through my nose, eyes fixed on my wife’s backside as she turned slightly to speak to another relative. The white leggings clung to every curve. Arjun’s crude words kept painting the picture sharper in my head—the weight of her ass in his hand, the way the panty lines sat against her soft flesh, the fact that she had hugged him back without knowing what he was doing.
A thick, dirty pleasure settled low in my stomach.
I stood there beside this ugly stranger and let him keep talking about my wife’s ass, asking small questions whenever he paused, drinking in every detail while she remained only a few steps away, still wiping her eyes, completely unaware.
Arjun watched my wife for another moment, then turned his head slightly toward me.
“I’m going to get one more hug,” he said quietly, almost casually. “Before she goes further inside.”
I didn’t stop him.
He walked across the hall with a serious, mourning expression on his rough face. My wife had just finished speaking to the group of women and was turning toward the kitchen doorway. Arjun reached her just as she was about to step inside.
He placed a hand on her shoulder from behind.
She turned, eyes still wet. He said something soft—I couldn’t hear the words—but his face looked properly sad. My wife nodded once, lips trembling, and then he pulled her into another full embrace.
This time he did it more openly.
Both arms wrapped tightly around her. One hand pressed high on her back while the other went straight down and settled firmly on her ass over the white kurti. He pulled her hips against him, crushing her heavy breasts into his chest. Then, while still holding the mourning expression for anyone watching, his lower hand slipped under the white kurti again and began feeling her ass properly over the white leggings—squeezing, lifting slightly, fingers spreading across both cheeks and pressing into the soft flesh.
My wife’s arms went around him again, naïve and gentle. She rested her face against his shoulder the same way she had earlier, completely unaware of what his hand was doing under the kurti.
I stood a few feet away and watched every second of it.
The way his dark fingers moved under the white kurti. The way her thick ass filled his hand. The way her body stayed soft and yielding against him while he openly felt her up in the middle of the funeral hall.
My cock was painfully hard now.
A thick, throbbing heat ran through me as I stared at the scene—my innocent wife hugging this ugly stranger back while he groped her ass under her kurti, right in front of me. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just stood there, breathing heavier, and let the dirty pleasure of watching fill me completely.
My wife finally broke the hug.
She said something soft to Arjun—I couldn’t catch the exact words—then stepped back, quickly adjusted the white kurti over her hips, and walked into the kitchen.
I went straight to him.
He was still watching the doorway she had entered. When I stopped in front of him I kept my voice low and clear.
“That woman you just hugged… is my wife.”

To Be Continued ..!

[novelistcasanova]

Arjun’s face changed at once. The easy confidence disappeared. His eyes widened slightly. For a second he looked properly shocked. I could almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes—rich advocate, powerful man, yet standing here calmly after everything he had said and done. He must have decided I was liberal in a way he hadn’t expected.

He immediately lowered his head a little.
“Sir… I’m sorry. I didn’t know. The way I spoke about her… I shouldn’t have said those things. Please forgive me.”
I looked at him for a moment, then gave a small nod.
“It’s okay.”
He still looked uncertain.
I continued, “Come. I’ll introduce you properly.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him toward the kitchen. My wife was standing near the counter, pouring water into steel glasses for some of the older relatives. She looked up when we entered.
“Sudha,” I said, keeping my tone normal and warm. “This is Arjun. He was the one who saw the accident and helped with the security officer and ambulance. He stayed till the end. Good man. I spoke to him outside.”
I deliberately added more.
“He seems genuine. Helped the family when no one else was there. You can trust him.”
My wife’s expression softened immediately. The earlier shyness mixed with respect. She folded her hands politely.
“Thank you for helping them, Arjun,” she said quietly. “It must have been difficult.”
Arjun joined his hands in return, still a little careful.
“It was the least I could do.”
After a short exchange about the accident, my wife glanced toward the hall and said,
“I should go back… people are waiting. You must also have to leave soon, no?”
Arjun nodded. As she stepped past him to leave the kitchen, he raised his arms slightly for a goodbye hug—more restrained this time, testing.
Because I had already spoken so well of him, my wife did not hesitate. She stepped into the hug freely, arms going around him without any of the earlier formality. Her heavy breasts pressed against his chest through the white kurti once more. Arjun’s hands rested on her back, one of them a little lower than necessary, but she didn’t notice. She hugged him the way she would hug any man her husband had personally introduced and praised.
When they separated I took out my visiting card and held it out to him.
“Come to the house anytime,” I said clearly. “Don’t hesitate.”
Arjun took the card, looked at it, then looked at me. Something new settled in his eyes.
“I will, sir.”
He glanced once more at my wife, then walked out of the kitchen.
I stood there with the mild smell of her still in the air and the knowledge of what I had just done sitting heavy and exciting in my chest.
We left the funeral earlier than most.
In the car my wife sat quietly, still in the white kurti top and white leggings, eyes red from crying. I drove without speaking much. The image of Arjun’s hands under her kurti kept replaying in my head—the way he had squeezed her ass, the way she had hugged him back so innocently. My cock stayed half-hard the entire drive.
The moment we stepped inside our house and the main door locked behind us, I turned to her.
I didn’t wait.
I pulled the white kurti up and over her head. She raised her arms in surprise but didn’t stop me. Next I hooked my fingers into the waist of the white leggings and pushed them down her thick thighs along with her dark green panties in one motion. She stepped out of them, standing in front of me in only her white bra. I reached behind her, unhooked the white bra, and pulled it off. Her heavy breasts spilled free.
“Rajesh…?” she began, voice soft and confused.
I didn’t answer with words. I pushed her back against the living room wall, lifted one of her thick thighs, and pushed my cock inside her in a single hard thrust. She gasped loudly, hands gripping my shoulders.
I fucked her harder than I had in a long time—deep, steady strokes that made her heavy breasts bounce with every impact. Her back rubbed against the wall. Soft wet sounds filled the quiet house. She clung to me, legs trembling.
“Ahh… Rajesh… what has happened to you…?” she breathed against my ear, voice already breaking. “You’re… so rough today…”
I kept going, gripping her wide hips, watching her face as pleasure overtook the confusion. Her eyes half-closed, lips parted, soft moans turning into louder ones with each thrust.
“I don’t know… but don’t stop…” she whispered later, arms tightening around my neck. “It feels so good… I love this…”
She came first, body shaking, a long broken moan leaving her throat as her insides clenched around me. I followed soon after, burying myself deep and finishing inside her with a low groan.
We stayed pressed together against the wall for a while, both breathing hard. Her heavy breasts were warm against my chest. Sweat cooled on our bodies.
She stroked the back of my neck gently and asked again, quieter this time,
“Really… what happened to you today?”
I kissed the side of her head and said nothing about Arjun, nothing about the hugs, nothing about the dirty heat that had built while I watched another man feel her up.
I simply held her there, still inside her, and let the silence answer for me.
My phone started ringing while we were still upstairs.
One relative after another.
“Rajesh, where are you? They’re taking the bodies for burial. It’s getting late.”
“Everyone is waiting. Come fast.”
I pulled my clothes back on quickly. My wife was still naked on the bed, heavy breasts rising and falling, dark green panties and white bra lying on the floor where I had dropped them. She looked at me with that same soft, confused expression from earlier.
“Go,” she said quietly. “I’ll come later if needed.”
I drove back to Ulsoor faster than usual. By the time I reached, the bodies were already being moved. Santhosh, Kasiammal and Chellappan. The same three who had meant nothing to me.
I left the burial ground without lingering.
Most of the relatives were still standing around, talking in low voices, making plans for the next rituals. I nodded at a few of them, said the expected words, and walked to the car. The images from earlier in the day refused to leave my mind — Arjun’s dark hand under my wife’s white kurti, the way he had squeezed her ass, the way she had hugged him back so innocently while he felt her panty lines, the crude words he had whispered about her body while I stood there and listened.
My cock had stayed half-hard through the entire burial.
When I reached home the house was quiet. Our three sons were already asleep. I locked the main door and went upstairs.
My wife was in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed in her white nightie. Underneath she wore only her black panties. No bra. Her heavy breasts rested soft and free under the nightie. She looked up when I entered, eyes still slightly red from the funeral.
“You’re back,” she said softly. “Was it… difficult?”
I removed my shirt and sat beside her on the bed.
“It was the same as always. People standing for name’s sake. No one really cared.”
She nodded slowly. After a small silence I turned toward her and spoke, keeping my voice calm but direct.
“That man today… Arjun. Why did you hug him back like that?”
My wife looked at me, a little surprised by the question.
“He was consoling me,” she said. “I was crying. It would have looked rude if I just stood there stiff. Basic manners, no?”
I watched her face.
“Both times you hugged him fully. Arms around his neck. You didn’t pull away even when his hand went lower.”
She lowered her eyes for a second, then spoke more quietly.
“The second time… near the kitchen… I felt his hand properly. He put it under my kurti. He was feeling my ass… and then he was tracing over my panties through the leggings. I felt his fingers following the panty lines.”
My cock thickened the moment the words left her mouth.
I kept my expression steady.
“And you still didn’t stop him?”
“You had already introduced him as a good man,” she said, voice soft. “You spoke so well about him. I didn’t want to create a scene in front of everyone. And… I thought maybe it was just how some men console. I didn’t know what else to do.”
She looked at me again, searching my face.
“Did I do something wrong?”
I reached out and rested my hand on her thigh over the white nightie. Her soft, warm flesh yielded under my palm. The memory of Arjun’s hand on the same place earlier that day mixed with her honest confession and made the heat in my stomach stronger.
“No,” I said after a moment. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
But inside, the dirty images had only become clearer — and sharper.
My wife kept looking at me, still uncertain. Her fingers were lightly twisting the edge of the white nightie near her thigh. The soft cotton had ridden up a little, showing more of her thick thigh. Underneath, only her black panties covered her. Her heavy breasts moved gently with each small breath she took.
“Should I have pushed him off?” she asked quietly. “When his hand went under the kurti… when he was feeling my panties through the leggings… should I have stopped him properly?”
I stayed silent for a few seconds, watching her face carefully. Her large dark eyes were searching mine for any sign of anger or disappointment. A mild pink still lingered on her cheeks from the earlier confession. The memory of Arjun’s dark hand sliding under her white kurti and tracing the lines of her black panties over the white leggings rose sharply in my mind again. My cock stirred under my trousers.
I shook my head slowly.
“No. It would have looked bad.”
She waited, lips slightly parted, waiting for me to explain further.
“Think about it carefully,” I said, keeping my voice calm and even. “It was Santhosh’s funeral. The hall was full of relatives. People were already watching everything. If you had suddenly pushed him away or raised your voice, every head would have turned. Someone would have asked what happened. Within minutes people would have started whispering. ‘Why did Sudha push that man away?’ At a funeral, that kind of talk spreads very fast. It would have created an unnecessary scene.”
My wife listened without interrupting. Her eyes lowered for a moment to where my hand still rested on her thigh over the white nightie. I could feel the soft warmth of her thick thigh under my palm. She shifted slightly, and the nightie moved with her, the fabric sliding a little higher.
“So it was better I stayed quiet?” she asked, voice soft.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “You handled it properly. He was only consoling you in his own way. Maybe his hands moved more than they should have, but you didn’t make a drama out of it. That was the correct thing to do in that situation. Creating a scene at the funeral would have been far worse.”
She let out a small, slow breath. Some of the tension left her shoulders. Her heavy breasts settled softer under the white nightie. She looked at me again, still a little unsure, but clearly wanting to believe my words.
“I was worried you would be angry,” she admitted after a moment. “Especially after I told you he felt my panties. I kept thinking about it on the way back. Whether I should have said something right there.”
I moved my hand a little higher on her thigh, still over the nightie, feeling the soft give of her flesh. The contrast between my calm words and the dirty heat building in my stomach was sharp.
“I’m not angry,” I told her. “You did what was needed. You didn’t embarrass anyone. You didn’t create a problem for the family on a day like that. That is what matters.”
My wife nodded slowly, accepting the explanation. She shifted a little closer on the bed. The movement made her heavy breasts sway gently under the white nightie. One of her hands came to rest lightly over mine on her thigh.
“Alright… if you say it was okay, then I won’t think about it too much,” she said.
I stroked her thigh once, slow and deliberate, feeling the soft warmth under the nightie while the memory of Arjun’s hand doing the same thing earlier stayed sharp and exciting in my mind.
“Good,” I said. “Just leave it.”
But as she leaned a little against my shoulder and the house stayed quiet around us, neither of us had truly left it behind.

[novelistcasanova]

My wife stayed leaning against my shoulder for a long while. The room was quiet except for the soft, steady sound of the ceiling fan turning above us. One of her hands rested lightly on my thigh. The white nightie had shifted with her position, the soft cotton slipping slightly off one shoulder and revealing the smooth upper curve of her heavy breast. Underneath, only her black panties covered her. I could feel the warm weight of her body against my side.

After a few moments she lifted her head slowly and looked at me. Her large dark eyes searched my face. A mild pink still lingered on her cheeks from earlier.
“Tell me honestly…” she said in a low voice, almost careful. “When he was hugging me like that… when his hand was under my kurti… did you feel jealous? Or angry?”
I kept my eyes on her face. The way she asked the question, soft and serious, made the memory of the funeral hall rise again — Arjun’s dark hand disappearing under her white kurti, the slow movement of his fingers over her ass, the clear shape of her black panties under the white leggings.
I leaned closer until my mouth was just beside her ear. My lips almost brushed the soft skin there. I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“Jealous.”
I felt her body tense slightly against my side. Her fingers tightened a little on my thigh.
I stayed close to her ear and continued in the same low, quiet voice.
“He was lucky. He got to enjoy your ass like that… feeling the full shape of it under the kurti… squeezing it… then tracing the lines of your black panties through the leggings while you just stood there and hugged him back.”
My wife’s cheeks turned a deeper pink almost immediately. She pulled back just enough to look at my face properly. Her eyes were wide, lips slightly parted in disbelief. For a second she only stared at me.
Then a small, disbelieving laugh escaped her throat.
“Rajesh…!” she whispered, half shocked, half amused. “What are you saying…”
She covered her mouth with one hand, but another soft giggle slipped out between her fingers. Her heavy breasts moved gently under the white nightie with the small laughter. I felt a quiet chuckle rise in my own chest. The sound of both of us giggling in the otherwise silent bedroom felt strangely light after the heavy, tense day at the funeral.
She shook her head, still smiling and clearly embarrassed, and lightly hit my chest with the back of her hand.
“You’re terrible…” she said, voice still low and laughing. “Talking like that about your own wife’s ass… in detail…”
But she didn’t move away from me. She stayed close, her heavy breasts pressing softly against my arm through the white nightie. The quiet giggles slowly faded, leaving a warmer, more charged silence between us. Her hand was still on my thigh. My hand still rested on hers. The memory of Arjun’s hand on her body earlier that day sat between us now, no longer hidden, and neither of us tried to push it away.



The quiet giggles faded completely. My wife was still close against my side, her heavy breasts resting softly against my arm through the white nightie. Her hand remained on my thigh. The pink on her cheeks had not fully gone away.
I looked at her for a moment, then spoke in a calm, thoughtful voice.
“Actually… I want to find out something.”
She turned her face toward me, waiting.
“I want to know if the way he touched you was only casual consoling… or if he was simply enjoying you.”
My wife’s expression shifted. The light embarrassment from earlier mixed with something more serious. She looked down at her lap for a second, fingers lightly playing with the edge of the white nightie.
“Of course he was enjoying,” she said quietly. “I realised it later… when I thought about how his hand moved. It wasn’t just a normal hug. The way he kept his hand under the kurti… the way he felt my ass and then followed the panty lines so slowly… he was enjoying it. And now I feel a little bad that I didn’t stop him properly.”
I kept my face calm, even as the words sent a slow heat through my stomach.
“Did he enjoy it?” I asked, still in the same even tone.
My wife glanced at me, then gave a small, almost reluctant nod.
“Of course he must have,” she said. “Any man would. The way he held me… the way his hand didn’t leave my ass until someone called me… he was taking his time. He was enjoying my body while pretending it was only consolation.”
She bit her lower lip slightly after saying it, as if the honesty of her own words surprised her.
I listened without changing my expression. Inside, the dirty heat had grown sharper. The clear confirmation that Arjun had deliberately enjoyed her ass, that he had taken his time feeling her black panties through the white leggings while she hugged him, made my cock thicken under my trousers. But I kept my face steady and controlled. I did not let the arousal show.
I only nodded slowly, as if I was simply processing the information.
“I see,” I said quietly.
My wife watched me for a reaction. When she found none on my face, she leaned a little more against my shoulder again, still thoughtful, still a little guilty, while the heat I was carefully hiding continued to build.


My wife remained quiet for a short while, still leaning against my shoulder. Her fingers lightly traced small circles on my thigh over my trousers. The white nightie had slipped a little more on one side, the soft cotton resting loosely over the full shape of her heavy breast. After a few moments she lifted her head and looked at me again.
“Did you feel bad?” she asked softly. “When I told you he was enjoying it… when I admitted he was feeling my panties… did it make you feel bad?”
I met her eyes and kept my voice calm and steady.
“No,” I said. “It was friendly. That is all.”
She watched my face carefully, as if trying to make sure I meant it.
I continued in the same even tone.
“He was only comforting you. You were crying at the funeral. He saw that and tried to console you in his own way. Maybe his hands moved more than they should have, but the intention was still to comfort. There is no need for you to feel guilty about it, and there is no need for me to feel bad either.”
My wife’s shoulders relaxed a little. Some of the worry left her expression. She gave a small, relieved nod.
“You really don’t mind?” she asked once more, quieter.
“I don’t mind,” I told her. “It was a funeral. People were emotional. He was trying to help you feel better. That is how I see it.”
She let out a soft breath and rested her head against my shoulder again. Her heavy breasts pressed warmly against my arm through the white nightie. One of her hands stayed on my thigh.
“Alright…” she whispered. “If you say it was only friendly, then I will also think of it that way.”
I stroked her arm slowly, keeping my face calm and reassuring, while the real heat of what she had confessed earlier continued to sit quietly inside me, carefully hidden.


The room stayed quiet for a while after my last words. My wife’s head remained on my shoulder. Her breathing was slow and soft. I thought the conversation had ended.
Then she spoke again, even quieter than before.
“There is… one more thing.”
I turned my face slightly toward her.
She kept her eyes down, looking at her own hand on my thigh. A deeper pink had risen on her cheeks. Her fingers had stopped moving.
“When he was feeling me… under the kurti… when his hand was on my ass and then tracing over my panties through the leggings…” she paused, swallowing once. “Without me even realising… I leaked a little. My panties got wet.”
The words hit me harder than anything she had said so far.
My cock, already half-hard from the earlier conversation, thickened fully and pressed firmly against my trousers. A sharp, heavy heat flooded through my stomach and lower. For a second I had to stay completely still so the sudden arousal would not show on my face or in my breathing.
I kept my voice calm.
“It’s natural,” I said.
My wife finally looked up at me, eyes uncertain.
“Natural…?”
“Yes,” I continued, still controlled. “The body sometimes reacts on its own. You were emotional, he was holding you tightly, his hand was moving on you… the body can respond even when the mind is not thinking that way. It doesn’t mean anything wrong. It’s just natural.”
She searched my face for any sign of anger or disgust. When she found none, some of the tension left her shoulders again. She gave a small, embarrassed nod and looked down once more.
“I felt ashamed when I realised later…” she admitted in a whisper. “That my panties were wet because of another man’s touch.”
I stroked her arm slowly, keeping every movement steady even as my cock stayed fully hard and throbbing under my trousers.
“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” I told her quietly. “It was a natural reaction. That is all.”
My wife leaned a little more against me, accepting the words. But inside me the knowledge that her black panties had gotten wet while Arjun felt her up at the funeral burned hotter than anything else that day. I sat there with a calm face, comforting her, while the dirty heat of her confession kept growing stronger with every second.


My wife remained quiet for a few more seconds after my last words. Her fingers had started moving again on my thigh, small restless movements. Then she spoke, voice low and heavy.
“Even if you say it is natural… I still feel guilty.”
She lifted her head from my shoulder and looked at me properly. Her large dark eyes were serious now.
“I keep thinking about it. Another man felt my ass… felt my panties… and my body reacted. I leaked. At a funeral. I feel dirty when I remember it.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but she shook her head slightly and placed her hand over mine.
“Please… change the topic,” she said softly. “I don’t want to talk about that anymore tonight.”
I nodded once.
She shifted a little on the bed, pulling the white nightie down properly over her thighs, and then asked in a quieter, more normal tone,
“Tell me about the burial. How did it go? Santhosh… and his parents…”
I leaned back against the headboard.
“It was the usual. The bodies were lowered. People stood around. Some women cried loudly for show. Most of the men were already checking the time.”
My wife listened, her expression softening with genuine sadness again.
“Arjun told me something earlier,” I added after a moment. “About the accident.”
She looked at me.
“He said he was the one who saw it happen. According to him, Santhosh suffered a lot. The car hit the divider first, then another vehicle. Santhosh was trapped. Arjun said it took time for them to pull him out. He was still conscious for a while… in a lot of pain… before he died.”
My wife’s face fell. Her hand went to her chest.
“Aiyyo…” she whispered. “He suffered like that…? And Kasiammal and Chellappan also…”
“Yes,” I said. “Arjun described it in detail. He said it was brutal. Santhosh didn’t go quickly.”
She closed her eyes for a second, absorbing the cruelty of it. The earlier guilt about her wet panties and Arjun’s hands was temporarily pushed aside by the fresh sadness of the accident.
I watched her face in the soft bedroom light — the genuine sorrow, the way her heavy breasts rose and fell under the white nightie with each deeper breath — and kept my own expression calm, even as the darker thoughts from earlier continued to sit quietly underneath.
My phone started ringing on the side table.
Both of us looked at it. The name on the screen was unfamiliar at first, then I remembered — I had saved Arjun’s number after giving him my card at the funeral.
I picked it up and, without saying anything to my wife, put it on speaker and placed the phone between us on the bed.
“Hello, Rajesh sir,” Arjun’s voice came through, rough but polite.
“Arjun,” I said. “Tell me.”
There was a short pause on the other end. Then he spoke carefully.
“Sir… I am calling because I keep thinking about the funeral. The way I hugged your wife… both times. Especially the second time near the kitchen. I feel I held her longer than I should have. My hand… may have moved more than it needed to. I was only trying to console her because she was crying, but if she felt anything wrong, I am truly sorry.”
My wife’s eyes widened slightly. She sat up straighter on the bed, the white nightie shifting over her heavy breasts. As Arjun continued speaking, her expression slowly changed from surprise to something softer.
Arjun’s voice went on.
“I keep remembering it and I feel uneasy. I don’t want any misunderstanding. If she felt uncomfortable even a little, please tell her I apologise. I won’t be able to sleep properly thinking I crossed a line.”
My wife’s face filled with genuine sympathy. The earlier embarrassment faded, replaced by quiet concern. She leaned closer to the phone and spoke in her soft, kind voice.
“Arjun… please don’t feel like that. It was nothing. You were only trying to comfort me when I was crying. I didn’t feel anything wrong. Please don’t trouble yourself over it.”
I joined in immediately, keeping my tone easy, warm and completely reassuring.
“She’s right. The hugging was nothing wrong at all. You were only consoling her at a difficult time. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. In fact, I was fine with it. She needed the comfort, and you gave it. That is all.”
My wife glanced at me while I spoke. The calm, open way I defended the hugs made her shoulders relax further. She clearly felt sorry for Arjun now.
I continued smoothly.
“Feel free for hugs next time also. There is no issue. And don’t hesitate to come to our house anytime. You are welcome.”
There was a short silence on the line. Then Arjun’s voice came again, a little more careful.
“Sir… when you say feel free for hugs… you mean even tomorrow morning when I come? The same way I hugged her at the funeral?”
The direct question sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through my cock. I kept my face completely calm and my voice steady, even as the arousal thickened hard under my trousers.
“Yes,” I said clearly. “The same way is fine.”
My wife’s eyes flicked toward me for a second, but she said nothing. She still looked soft with sympathy for him.
Arjun’s voice came again, a little more settled.
“Thank you for saying that, sir. Actually… if it is okay, I will come tomorrow morning. I wanted to talk a little more about Santhosh… about the accident and some things he had mentioned earlier.”
“Come,” I said without hesitation. “Morning is fine.”
“Alright, sir. Thank you. Good night.”
“Good night, Arjun.”
I ended the call.
The bedroom became quiet again. My wife sat looking at the phone for a few seconds longer, her expression soft with leftover sympathy for the man who had apologised so sincerely. Then she slowly leaned back against the headboard. The white nightie rose and fell with her breathing.
I sat beside her with the same calm expression, while the knowledge that I had just given Arjun open permission to hug her the same way again tomorrow morning kept the dirty heat burning steadily and strongly inside me.
The call had ended, but the silence in the bedroom felt heavier than before.
My wife remained leaning against the headboard, the white nightie soft over her heavy breasts. After a long moment she turned her face toward me, her voice low and slightly uneasy.
“Not like in the morning at Santhosh’s funeral…” she said. “If he hugs me the same way again… the same way he put his hand under the kurti and felt my panties… I might get wet again.”
The words went straight to my cock.
I kept my face calm, but the heat inside me thickened immediately.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly.
She looked at me, searching for any sign that I was disturbed. When she found none, I leaned a little closer and spoke in the same even voice.
“Let me see how wet you are.”
My wife’s eyes widened.
Before she could answer, I reached down and slowly lifted the white nightie up her thighs, past her hips, and higher until it rested above her waist. She did not stop me. Her black panties came into full view, stretched across her soft lower stomach and the thick curve of her hips. I hooked my fingers into the waistband and pulled them down her legs in one steady motion, sliding them off her feet and dropping them on the bed.
Her pussy was bare in front of me.
I looked at it carefully. The soft lips were slightly parted. A clear wetness already glistened between them, catching the dim bedroom light. She was wet.
My cock throbbed hard under my trousers.
My wife’s cheeks turned deep pink. She tried to close her thighs, but my hand was already resting on one of them.
“It’s not because of him,” she said quickly, voice embarrassed. “Don’t think that. It’s not because of Arjun.”
I kept looking at her wet pussy for another second, then raised my eyes to her face.
“I’m going to take it,” I said.
Her blush deepened further. She shook her head once, soft and flustered.
“No…” she whispered, but the word had no real force behind it, and her thighs remained open under my hand.
I did not give her time to close her legs.
I shifted down the bed, placed both hands on her thick thighs, and pushed them wider apart. Her black panties lay discarded beside us. Her pussy was fully open in front of my face — soft, slightly swollen, the clear wetness already shining on the inner lips and the small patch of dark hair above.
I leaned in and dragged my tongue slowly through the wetness from the bottom of her pussy all the way up to her clit.
My wife’s whole body jerked.
“Rajesh…” she gasped, one hand flying to my hair.
I did not stop. I licked her again, slower this time, spreading her soft pussy lips with my thumbs so my tongue could go deeper. The taste of her was strong and clean, mixed with the unmistakable slickness of fresh arousal. I sealed my mouth over her and sucked gently, then harder, feeling her clit swell under my tongue.
“You heard the call,” I murmured against her wet pussy, voice low and rough. “I told him he can hug you the same way tomorrow morning. And look at you… already this wet.”
“No…” she breathed, hips twitching. “It’s not because of that… don’t say that…”
I ignored the protest and pushed my tongue inside her, fucking her slowly with it while my nose pressed against her clit. Her thick thighs trembled on either side of my head. The wet sounds of my mouth on her pussy filled the quiet bedroom. I licked upward again and focused on her clit, circling it, flicking it, then sucking it between my lips in a steady rhythm.
My wife’s breathing turned into short, broken gasps. Her heavy breasts rose and fell hard under the white nightie that was still bunched above her waist. One of her hands gripped the bedsheet; the other stayed tangled in my hair.
“I told him yes,” I said between long, deliberate licks. “Feel free to hug her the same way. And your pussy got wet just hearing it.”
“No… Rajesh… it’s not… ahh…” she tried to deny, but her voice cracked as I sucked her clit harder. “Not because of the call… please…”
I slid two fingers into her while I kept licking. She was soaked. My fingers went in easily, the wet heat of her pussy closing around them at once. I curled them upward and stroked the soft inner wall in time with my tongue on her clit.
Her back arched.
“Tomorrow morning he’ll be here,” I whispered against her. “And I already told him he can hold you the same way he did at the funeral.”
“It’s not—” her protest broke into a long, helpless moan as I sucked her clit and pressed my fingers deeper at the same time. “Rajesh… I’m going to…”
I did not slow down. I licked and sucked and stroked her steadily, watching her thick thighs shake harder, watching her soft stomach tense, watching her heavy breasts move under the nightie with every desperate breath.
Her orgasm hit suddenly.
Her pussy clenched tightly around my fingers. A sharp cry left her throat as her whole body locked and then trembled hard. Clear wetness flooded against my mouth and over my hand. I kept licking her through it, slower now, drawing out every pulse until her thighs tried to close around my head and her voice turned into soft, broken whimpers.
Only then did I lift my mouth from her.
My wife lay panting, white nightie still pushed up, black panties somewhere on the bed, her pussy shiny and swollen and still twitching mildly. Her cheeks were deep red. She looked at me with wet, dazed eyes, still trying to form the same denial even as her body continued to tremble from the orgasm the phone call had helped create.
I stayed between my wife’s open thighs for a few more seconds.
Her pussy was still soft and shiny from the orgasm, the inner lips slightly swollen, a thin trail of wetness slowly running down toward the bedsheet. Her thick thighs remained loosely open on either side of me. The white nightie was still bunched high above her waist, leaving her heavy breasts and soft stomach fully exposed. Her black panties lay crumpled near the foot of the bed. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. A light sheen of sweat glowed on the upper curve of her breasts and along her collarbone.
I finally lifted myself up and moved to lie beside her.
She turned her head on the pillow to look at me. Her large dark eyes were still a little dazed, cheeks deeply flushed, lips parted. A few strands of her long black hair were stuck to her temple and neck. She looked thoroughly used by pleasure and still slightly embarrassed by how hard she had come.
I gave her a small, easy smile and spoke in a light, almost casual voice.
“I was just kidding.”
My wife blinked slowly, as if she needed a second to register the words.
“About everything I said while I was down there,” I continued, keeping my tone gentle and warm. “About the call… about Arjun hugging you tomorrow morning… about your body reacting to it. I was only teasing you. Don’t take any of it seriously.”
For a moment she simply stared at me. Then the tension that had been sitting in her shoulders and in the corners of her eyes slowly melted. A soft, relieved smile began to form on her lips. The leftover worry in her expression faded, replaced by something warmer and more trusting.
“You were teasing…?” she asked, her voice still a little husky from the orgasm.
“Yes,” I said. I reached out and carefully brushed a damp strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lightly grazing her cheek. “I just wanted to see your reaction. That’s all. Nothing more.”
Her smile grew fuller, softer. She shifted closer on the bed until her body faced mine completely. The white nightie was still pushed up, so when she moved, her heavy bare breasts pressed warmly against my chest. The soft weight of them settled against me. One of her thick thighs slid over mine. She leaned in and kissed my lips — slow, grateful, and full of quiet affection.
The kiss lasted several seconds. I could feel the softness of her mouth, the mild remaining taste of her own wetness on my lips, the gentle way her hand came up to rest against my cheek. When she finally pulled back just enough to speak, her forehead stayed close to mine. Her voice was soft and completely sincere.
“You’re the best husband,” she whispered against my mouth. “Really. The way you handle everything… the way you never make me feel bad or dirty… the way you protect me even with words… you’re the best.”
She kissed me again, longer this time. Her heavy breasts remained pressed against my chest. Her fingers lightly stroked my cheek and then the side of my neck. I kissed her back with the same slow tenderness, letting her believe every calm, loving word I had just spoken, while the real heat of what I had told Arjun on the phone — and what would happen the next morning — stayed carefully hidden behind the gentle expression I showed her.
We stayed close for a long time after the kiss.
Eventually the heat of the moment settled. My wife pulled the white nightie back down over her body, the soft cotton covering her heavy breasts and soft stomach once more. She reached for her black panties but did not put them back on. She simply left them near the pillow and lay down properly beside me under the thin bedsheet. I switched off the bedside lamp. The room fell into soft darkness broken only by the mild glow coming through the curtains.
We lay on our sides, facing each other. Her heavy breasts rested against my chest through the nightie, the warm weight of them steady and familiar. One of her thick thighs was dbangd loosely over mine. Her long black hair was spread across the pillow, a few strands falling over her cheek and neck. For a while neither of us spoke. Only the ceiling fan turned slowly above us, moving the warm air.
Then, into the quiet, I spoke.
“Today… at the funeral…”
My wife’s eyes opened fully in the dark. I felt her body become more alert against me. She waited without interrupting.
“When Arjun was hugging you… when he put his hand under your kurti and felt your ass… when he was tracing your panty lines through the leggings…” I paused, feeling the exact moment her breathing changed. “I felt horny watching him enjoy you.”
The silence that followed was thick and heavy.
My wife slowly lifted her head from the pillow. Even in the low light I could see the surprise land on her face. Her large dark eyes searched mine carefully. After a few seconds she raised one hand and gently held my face, her soft palm resting against my cheek, her thumb lightly brushing near the corner of my mouth. The gesture was full of quiet love and attention.
“Really…?” she whispered, her voice soft and careful. “You felt that?”
“Yes,” I said.
She kept holding my face, her eyes moving over my features as if she wanted to make sure she understood correctly.
“You felt… horny?” she asked again, still in that same gentle, loving tone. “Watching another man touch me like that… at a funeral… right in front of you?”
“Yes,” I repeated. “I watched him enjoy your body… and it made me hard.”
Her thumb continued its slow, tender movement against my cheek. She did not pull away. Instead she stayed close, her heavy breasts still pressed to my chest, her thick thigh still over mine, and asked another quiet question.
“When exactly did you feel it the most…?” she whispered. “When he first hugged me… or when his hand went under the kurti… or when he was feeling my panties?”
I looked into her eyes in the dark.
“When his hand was under the kurti,” I answered honestly. “When I saw him properly holding your ass and tracing the lines of your panties through the leggings… that was when it hit me the strongest.”
My wife’s breath left her slowly. She kept her hand on my face, holding me with care, her expression a mixture of surprise, tenderness, and something deeper that she had not yet put into words. The confession sat openly between us now, and she was receiving it with love instead of anger.
My wife’s hand stayed on my face for a long time.
Her soft palm cupped my cheek completely, fingers resting lightly near my ear, her thumb moving in slow, tender strokes just beside the corner of my mouth. In the dim light coming through the curtains, her large dark eyes were shiny with quiet emotion. She shifted closer on the bed until the full weight of her heavy breasts pressed firmly against my chest through the white nightie. The soft warmth of her body settled against me. One of her thick thighs slid higher over mine. Her long black hair fell forward, a few strands brushing my neck and shoulder.
Then she spoke, her voice low, steady, and full of love.
“I love you more than anything in this world,” she whispered. “More than my own life. You know that, don’t you?”
I nodded once, slowly.
She leaned in. First she placed a gentle, lingering kiss on my forehead. Her lips were warm and soft. Then she kissed my right cheek, slow enough that I felt the full shape of her mouth. Then she kissed my left cheek the same way. Finally she brought her lips to mine and gave me a slow, tender kiss that lasted several seconds. When she pulled back just a little, she kept holding my face with both hands now, her palms framing my cheeks completely.
“Tell me openly,” she said, her voice still soft and loving. “What do you want me to do for you? Don’t hide anything from me. Tell me.”
I stayed silent. The words felt heavy in my throat. My chest rose and fell against the soft weight of her heavy breasts. She felt my hesitation immediately. Without speaking, she leaned in again and kissed the corner of my mouth — slow, reassuring, full of patience. Then she rested her forehead lightly against mine.
“I love you,” she whispered against my lips. “Whatever it is… you can tell me. I am your wife. There is nothing you cannot say to me. Tell me.”
I swallowed once. My voice came out low and careful when I finally spoke.
“At Santhosh’s funeral… when I watched Arjun with you… something started inside me.”
She did not interrupt. Her thumbs continued their slow, loving movement across my cheeks. Her eyes stayed fixed on mine in the dark.
“I want…” I paused again, struggling with the weight of the honesty. She waited without pressure. After a few seconds she gave me another soft kiss on the lips, just long enough to encourage me, then pulled back and kept listening.
“I want to watch him fuck you.”
The words hung in the dark between us, clear and irreversible.
My wife’s hands remained on my face. For several long seconds she simply looked at me. I could see the surprise in her eyes, but underneath it there was no rejection — only deep attention and love. Then she spoke, still gentle.
“But he is ugly, Rajesh…”
I did not deny it. I only kept looking at her.
She was quiet for a few more seconds. Her thumbs kept stroking my cheeks. Then her expression softened further with pure devotion. She leaned in and kissed my forehead once more — slow and deliberate. She kissed both of my cheeks again. Finally she kissed my lips, longer this time, pouring everything she felt into it.
When she pulled back, her voice was soft and absolute.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered against my mouth. “If that is what you want… I will do it for you.”
Her arms came around me completely. She hugged me tightly, pressing her heavy breasts fully against my chest, her face burying into the side of my neck for a long moment. I felt the warmth of her breath against my skin. Then she pulled back just enough to look into my eyes again. Her own eyes were shiny now, emotional.
“I love you so much,” she said, her voice turning thick with feeling, almost breaking. “I am ready to even die for you if you ask me. This is nothing compared to that. If watching him take me is what you need… then I will give it to you. Without question. Without hesitation.”
She kissed me again — forehead, cheek, lips — each kiss soft, lingering, and full of complete surrender. Her hands returned to my face, holding me as if I was the only thing that mattered in the world.
“Just tell me when,” she whispered, her forehead resting against mine. “I am yours. Completely.”
We lay in silence for a long time after her words.
My wife’s hands were still framing my face, her soft palms warm against my cheeks. Her thumbs rested near the corners of my mouth. Her heavy breasts remained pressed firmly against my chest through the white nightie. Every slow breath she took made them rise and fall against me, the soft weight of them steady and intimate. The ends of her long black hair spilled across the pillow and over my shoulder. The weight of the promise she had just made sat between us in the dark — heavy, real, and irreversible. Neither of us moved for several minutes. Only the ceiling fan turned above us, moving the warm air in slow circles.
Finally I spoke, my voice low.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “We can do it tomorrow. There is no need to rush.”
My wife slowly shook her head. Her large dark eyes stayed locked on mine. A few strands of her long black hair fell across her cheek as she moved. The white nightie shifted slightly with the motion, the soft cotton sliding over the full curve of her heavy breast.
“No,” she whispered. “Today. Now.”
The firmness in her soft voice sent a fresh pulse of heat through me. I looked at her carefully. There was no hesitation left in her expression — only calm, loving resolve. Her lips were slightly parted. Her breathing was controlled.
“Call him,” she said. “Tell him to come to the house now.”
I reached for my phone on the side table. The sudden light from the screen was bright in the dark bedroom, casting a pale glow across her face and the upper curves of her heavy breasts under the nightie. I unlocked it, found Arjun’s number, and dialled. Before the first ring finished, I put the call on speaker and placed the phone on the bed between our bodies. The screen remained lit, illuminating the small space between us.
It rang three times.
Then his voice came through, slightly rough, as if he had already been lying down.
“Hello, Rajesh sir?”
“Arjun,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Are you free right now?”
There was a short pause on the other end. I could hear the mild sound of him shifting, the rustle of a bedsheet.
“Sir… it is almost eleven at night. I was just about to sleep. Is something wrong?”
My wife moved closer to the phone. The white nightie pulled tight across her heavy breasts as she leaned forward. The soft cotton stretched over their full shape. When she spoke, her voice was calm, clear, and steady — but every word carried weight.
“Arjun… if you come to our house right now, you can have me. Completely. Tonight. If you don’t come… then the offer ends. This is the only time I will say it. Decide.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
I watched her face in the phone’s light. Her expression did not change. Her lips remained slightly parted. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with controlled breaths under the nightie. She kept her eyes on the phone, giving him no soft escape, no room to negotiate.
Several long seconds passed.
Then Arjun’s voice returned. It had changed completely — lower, thicker, and charged with sudden hunger.
“I’m coming.”
My wife’s eyes stayed on the phone. She spoke again, still calm but now giving clear instructions.
“Brush your teeth. Take a proper shower. Then come.”
There was another short pause. When Arjun spoke, his voice was even rougher, almost strained.
“Can you… be in a saree?”
My wife looked at me for a brief second. Her large dark eyes met mine in the dim light. Then she answered without hesitation.
“Yes. I will be in a saree.”
She did not stop there. Her voice dropped a little lower, soft but deliberate, clearly tempting him further.
“Should I wear panties under the saree… or not?”
The silence on the other end was sharp this time. I could hear him breathing harder through the speaker — short, uneven breaths he was trying to control.
“Wear them,” he said finally, voice thick. “Please wear them. I want to remove them myself.”
My wife’s lips curved slightly at the edges. The mild smile was small but clear.
“Alright. I will wear panties. You can remove them when you come.”
Arjun’s breathing was fully audible now.
“I’m leaving right now,” he said, the urgency clear and rising in his voice. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t change your mind.”
“Then don’t waste time,” my wife replied calmly. “Shower. Brush. Come.”
“I’m already moving,” he said, and the line went dead.

[novelistcasanova]

The bedroom fell into silence again. The phone screen dimmed and then went dark. My wife slowly sat up on the bed. The white nightie shifted over her body with the movement, the soft cotton sliding across her heavy breasts and settling around her hips and thick thighs. She looked at me with the same devoted eyes as before, but something new had settled underneath — a quiet, irreversible acceptance of what was about to happen.

“He is coming,” she said simply.
Outside, the night remained still and dark.
Inside our house, the air itself felt different.
The phone lay dark between us on the bed.
My wife remained sitting up, the white nightie soft over her body. After a few seconds she turned her face toward me. Her large dark eyes searched mine carefully in the dim light. A few strands of her long black hair had fallen across her cheek.
“Are you happy?” she asked quietly. “Truly?”
I looked at her — at the calm but slightly tense acceptance on her face, at the way she had just offered herself so completely for me, at the knowledge that Arjun was already on his way. The weight of everything that had led to this moment settled heavily in my chest.
I moved closer and wrapped my arms around her. I hugged her tightly, pulling the full weight of her heavy breasts against my chest through the white nightie, burying my face against the warm side of her neck for a long moment. I felt her pulse under my lips.
“Thank you,” I whispered into her skin.
She held me back, her arms soft and full around my shoulders. Her fingers pressed lightly into my back. After a few seconds she turned her head, her lips close to my ear, and whispered.
“Come. Prepare your wife.”
She took my hand and stood up from the bed. The white nightie fell loosely around her thick thighs as she walked. I followed her out of the bedroom and into the attached bathroom. She switched on the light. The sudden brightness made both of us blink. Without a word she reached down, took the bottom of the white nightie, and pulled it slowly up over her head. Her heavy breasts came free, full and soft. She stood completely bare in front of me. She stepped toward the shower, turned on the water, and adjusted it until a steady stream of warm water fell. Soft steam began to rise and fill the small bathroom.
I stepped in behind her.
Warm water soaked her long black hair until it clung heavily to her back and shoulders in dark wet strands. Water ran down the curve of her spine, over the soft swell of her ass, and down the outer sides of her thick thighs. I picked up the soap, worked it between my palms until a thick white lather formed, and began preparing her body with slow, deliberate care.
I started at her shoulders.
My soapy hands moved across the tops of her shoulders and along the slope of her neck, washing her gently. She remained still under the water, breathing quietly. I slid my palms down her upper arms and back up again. Then I moved to her back, soaping the full length of her spine in long downward strokes, my hands spreading across her shoulder blades before following the soft inward curve of her waist.
As my hands worked, she spoke, voice quieter than before and slightly tight with nerves.
“I’m nervous, Rajesh…”
I paused for a second, my soapy hands resting on her waist, then continued.
“I know,” I said.
“I’m only doing this because I love you,” she continued softly, water running down her cheeks and over her lips as she spoke. “You asked for it… so I’m giving it to you. But I am nervous. I keep thinking about what is going to happen when he comes.”
I nodded and reached around her from behind.
My hands cupped the heavy weight of her breasts from below, lifting them slightly as I spread the thick lather over their full, soft shape. I moved my palms in slow circles, washing the outer curves, the warm undersides, and the soft skin between them. My thumbs brushed across her nipples, feeling them tighten under the touch and the warm water. I washed them thoroughly, carefully.
I continued downward.
My hands moved over her soft stomach, spreading soap across the gentle roundness. Then over her wide hips. When I soaped her ass, my palms moved over each heavy cheek, lifting them slightly and spreading the lather into the warm cleft between them. Water rinsed thin white trails of soap down the backs of her thick thighs.
I lowered myself in front of her.
She parted her thighs for me without being asked. I soaped her pussy with careful, thorough strokes. My fingers moved between the soft outer lips, spreading the lather, cleaning the sensitive inner folds, the small hood of her clit, and the warm entrance below. I washed her gently but completely, taking my time.
After a moment I spoke while still kneeling in front of her.
“I want to video record it.”
Her body tensed slightly under my hands. She looked down at me, water dripping from her chin onto her heavy breasts.
“Record…?” she asked, voice careful.
“Yes,” I said, continuing to rinse the soap from between her legs with warm water. “So that I can rewatch it later. I don’t want to call him again and again just to enjoy you. If we record it once… it will be enough for me.”
My wife was silent for several seconds. Water continued to fall over both of us. I could see her thinking, the nervousness still clear in her eyes.
“Is that a good idea?” she asked finally. “A video of me with him… like that…”
“Only for us,” I replied. I stood up slowly so we were face to face under the shower. Water ran down between our bodies. “No one else will ever see it. I’ll keep it completely confidential. Locked on my phone. Nothing will leave this house. Not a single person will know.”
She searched my face carefully, still nervous, still processing every word.
“And you’re sure you won’t show it to anyone later? Or keep calling him after tonight?”
“I’m sure,” I said firmly. “This one time. Recorded. Then we decide everything else later. But the video stays only between you and me. I promise.”
My wife let out a long, slow breath. Some of the tightness in her shoulders eased, though the nervousness remained in her eyes and in the way her fingers lightly touched my chest. She gave a small nod.
“Alright…” she whispered. “If that is what you want. But it stays only for us. Promise me again.”
“I promise,” I said.
I finished rinsing her body in silence after that. When the last of the soap had washed away, her entire body was clean and gleaming under the bathroom light — long black hair clinging to her back, heavy breasts shining with water, soft stomach, wide hips and thick thighs all prepared. She turned off the water. For a moment we simply stood there in the steam, looking at each other.
She was still nervous.
She was still doing this only because she loved me.
“Then help me wear the saree,” she said quietly. “He will be here soon.”
We stepped out of the shower together.
Warm steam still filled the bathroom. My wife stood on the mat, water dripping from her long black hair, over her heavy breasts, down her soft stomach and thick thighs. She pointed toward the large towel hanging on the rack.
“First dry me properly,” she said quietly. “Don’t leave me wet.”
I took the towel. She raised her arms slightly and stood still while I began. I started with her hair, gently pressing the towel against the heavy wet strands, absorbing as much water as I could without pulling. Then I moved to her shoulders and arms, patting the water away. I brought the towel to her heavy breasts, carefully drying the full curves, the warm undersides, and the soft valley between them. Her nipples tightened slightly under the touch of the towel. I dried her stomach, her wide hips, the full shape of her ass, and then her thick thighs, front and back. Finally I knelt and dried her calves, her ankles, and carefully between her legs until no moisture remained on her pussy.
She watched me the entire time, still a little nervous, but guiding me with small instructions.
“Now the body lotion,” she said. “The bottle near the sink. Apply it everywhere. Legs first.”
I found the bottle, poured a small amount into my palms, and warmed it between my hands. She lifted one foot onto the closed toilet lid. I started at her ankle and moved upward, spreading the lotion over her calf, behind her knee, and along her thick thigh. The lotion turned her skin soft and slightly shiny under the bathroom light. I repeated the same on her other leg, taking my time, making sure every part was covered — the outer sides, the sensitive inner thighs, all the way up to the crease where her thigh met her hip.
“Now my stomach and back,” she instructed.
I poured more lotion and spread it across her soft stomach in slow circles, then around her waist and over her hips. She turned around. I applied lotion across her upper back, down her spine, and over the full, heavy curve of her ass, my hands moving carefully over each cheek until the lotion was fully absorbed.
She turned to face me again.
“Breasts also,” she said, voice softer now. “Don’t miss them.”
I poured a little more lotion and cupped her heavy breasts from below. I spread the lotion over the full, soft flesh, moving my palms gently across the outer curves, under the warm weight of them, and over the tops. My thumbs brushed across her nipples as I worked the lotion in. She let out a small breath but did not stop me. When I finished, her breasts looked smooth and prepared.
“Underarms,” she said next. “Use the deodorant. The roll-on.”
I took the roll-on deodorant from the shelf. She raised both arms. I carefully applied it under each arm with slow strokes until it was done.
She lowered her arms and looked at herself in the mirror for a moment. Water still dripped lightly from the ends of her long black hair onto her shoulders. Her entire body was dry, lotion-soft, and clean. She was ready for the next step.
She glanced at me.
“Now the underwear,” she said quietly. “Which colour panties do you want me to wear for him?”
I looked at her standing there completely bare, freshly prepared, waiting for my decision.
“Maroon,” I said.
She gave a small nod, accepting the choice without question.
“Maroon,” she repeated softly. “Bring the maroon panties… and a matching bra. Then help me put them on.”
I stayed between my wife’s open thighs for a few more seconds, watching her pussy slowly calm down, still shiny and soft from the orgasm. Then I lifted myself up and moved beside her on the bed.
She was still breathing a little fast, white nightie bunched above her waist, black panties lying somewhere near our feet. Her cheeks were red. Her large dark eyes looked at me with a mix of leftover pleasure and mild embarrassment.
I gave a small, easy smile and spoke in a light voice.
“I was just kidding.”
My wife blinked.
“About everything I said while I was… down there,” I continued. “About the call… about Arjun hugging you tomorrow… about your body reacting. I was only teasing you. Don’t take it seriously.”
Relief and something softer spread across her face. The tension that had been sitting in her shoulders eased. A small smile slowly appeared on her lips.
“You were teasing…?” she asked, still a little breathless.
“Yes,” I said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I just wanted to see your reaction. That’s all.”
Her smile grew warmer. She turned onto her side, facing me fully, and leaned in. Her heavy breasts pressed softly against my chest through the white nightie as she kissed my lips — slow, grateful, and full of quiet affection.
When she pulled back just enough to speak, her voice was soft and sincere.
“You’re the best husband,” she whispered against my mouth. “Really. The way you handle everything… the way you don’t make me feel bad… you’re the best.”
She kissed me again, longer this time, one hand resting on my cheek. I kissed her back, tasting her, while the real reason for my earlier words stayed carefully hidden behind the calm, loving expression I showed her.
My wife stood on the bathroom mat, completely bare, her long black hair still damp and heavy down her back.
“Go to the bedroom cupboard,” she instructed quietly. “Second shelf from the top, right side. There is a small packet of fresh panties. Bring the whole packet here.”
I went into the bedroom, opened the cupboard, and found the packet exactly where she had said. It was a sealed pack of new panties. I carried it back to the bathroom and held it out to her.
She shook her head.
“You open it,” she said. “Remove the pack.”
I tore open the plastic covering and pulled out the fresh panties inside. There were four pairs, each still with a small sticker and a thin paper strip attached to the waistband.
“Now select which colour you want me to wear for him,” she said, watching me.
I looked at the options in my hands. After a moment I chose the maroon pair.
“Maroon,” I said.
She gave a small nod.
“Alright. Maroon. Now remove the sticker and the paper strip properly before you put them on me.”
I sat on the edge of the bathroom stool and carefully peeled the small sticker off the front of the maroon panties. Then I removed the thin paper strip that was stuck along the inside of the waistband. I checked once more to make sure nothing remained attached.
My wife watched every movement.
“Good,” she said softly. “Now help me wear my maroon panties.”
I knelt down in front of her on the bathroom mat.
She placed one hand lightly on my shoulder for balance and lifted her right foot. I held my maroon panties open with both hands and carefully guided her foot through the first leg opening. Her toes pointed slightly as they passed through. I repeated the same with her left foot. Now my maroon panties hung loosely around her ankles.
“Slowly,” she murmured.
I began to pull my maroon panties up.
They slid along her calves first, then over her knees. As my maroon panties moved higher, they stretched across the full shape of her thick thighs. I pulled them up carefully, inch by inch, watching the way my maroon panties expanded to accommodate the soft width of her thighs. When my maroon panties reached the upper part of her thighs, they were already stretched tight.
My wife shifted her weight slightly.
I continued pulling upward. My maroon panties rose over the full, heavy curve of her ass. My maroon panties stretched across each cheek, settling into the warm cleft between them. In the front, my maroon panties came up over her soft lower stomach and covered her pussy completely. The waistband of my maroon panties sat snugly below her navel.
I adjusted the fit with both hands.
My fingers moved along the waistband of my maroon panties, making sure it sat evenly. Then I gently adjusted the back, smoothing my maroon panties over the full shape of her ass so that they covered her properly without twisting. In the front, I carefully settled my maroon panties over her pussy, ensuring they sat smoothly against her without creasing.
My wife looked down at herself.
My maroon panties were fully on now — stretched taut across her thick thighs, cupped snugly over her pussy, and filled out completely by the heavy curve of her ass. She shifted once, testing the fit, and my maroon panties moved with her body.
“It’s fine,” she said quietly.
She was still nervous. I could hear it in her voice. But she stood there in only my maroon panties, freshly prepared, and waited for the next step.
“Now my bra,” she said. “Help me with that also.”
My wife stood in front of me wearing only my maroon panties.
Her heavy breasts were bare, full and soft, still slightly shiny from the lotion. She looked at me and gave the next quiet instruction.
“Bring my white bra,” she said. “It is in the same cupboard, left side, second shelf. The plain white one with the back hook.”
I went to the bedroom, opened the cupboard, and found my white bra exactly where she had said. It was a simple, full-coverage white bra with wide straps and a three-hook back closure. I brought it back to the bathroom and held it out.
She nodded once.
“Help me wear it,” she said.
I stepped closer. She turned her back to me and raised both arms slightly. I first slipped the right strap of my white bra over her right shoulder, then the left strap over her left shoulder. The white cups hung loosely in front of her chest.
“Hold the cups in place,” she instructed softly. “I will bend forward a little.”
She leaned forward slightly. Her heavy breasts settled fully into the white cups. I adjusted the white bra from the front, making sure each breast sat properly inside its cup, the soft flesh filling them completely without spilling over the top.
“Now hook it at the back,” she said.
I moved behind her. The three hooks of my white bra were open. I took the two ends, pulled them together across her back, and fastened the first hook. Then the second. Then the third. The white bra tightened firmly around her body, lifting and holding her heavy breasts in place.
I adjusted the straps on both shoulders so they sat evenly and did not dig in.
My wife turned to face the mirror.
My white bra was fully on now. The plain white cups held her heavy breasts securely, the wide straps resting neatly on her shoulders, the back hooks fastened cleanly. Below, my maroon panties covered her pussy and stretched across her thick thighs and the heavy curve of her ass.
She looked at her reflection for a few seconds, still nervous, still quiet.
“It’s done,” she said softly. “Now the petticoat and saree.”
My wife turned away from the mirror.
She was wearing only my white bra and my maroon panties. Her heavy breasts sat full and secure inside the white cups. My maroon panties stretched tightly across her thick thighs and the heavy curve of her ass. She looked at me for a moment, still nervous, then quietly took my hand.
“Come,” she said.
She led me out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, walking ahead of me in only my white bra and my maroon panties. I followed, my eyes moving over the soft sway of her heavy ass under the maroon panties and the way her back looked above the white bra strap. My cock was already hard inside my trousers. The sight of her walking half-dressed, freshly prepared for another man, made the heat in my stomach stronger with every step.
She stopped in front of the cupboard and opened it.
Her hands moved carefully among the folded clothes. First she took out a yellow saree — bright, rich yellow with a thin gold border. She held it for a second, then placed it on the bed. Next she reached in and picked up the matching yellow blouse herself. It was sleeveless, the same bright yellow as the saree, with a simple neckline and hook fastening at the back. She placed the yellow blouse beside the saree. Finally she took out her white petticoat — plain, soft, with a drawstring waist.
She held the white petticoat in both hands and looked down at it. A visible nervousness passed across her face. Her fingers tightened slightly on the white petticoat.
Then she glanced up at me.
Her large dark eyes moved from my face down to the clear bulge in my trousers. She noticed immediately. For a second she simply stared at how hard I was. A mild pink rose on her cheeks. She did not comment, but the knowledge that I was openly excited while she stood in front of me in only my white bra and my maroon panties made her nervousness deepen.
She looked away and stepped into the white petticoat.
She pulled it up over her thick thighs, over my maroon panties, and settled it around her waist. The white petticoat hung loosely around her hips and legs. She gathered the drawstring, pulled it tight below her navel, and tied it on the left side in a neat bow knot. The white petticoat now covered my maroon panties completely, falling in soft folds around her legs.
She stood there in my white bra and the white petticoat, the yellow blouse and yellow saree waiting on the bed beside her.
Her hands were slightly unsteady.
She looked at me once more, still noticing the open hardness in my trousers, and spoke in a quiet, nervous voice.
“Help me with the blouse next.”
My wife stood in front of the bed in my white bra and the white petticoat.
The yellow blouse lay waiting beside the yellow saree. She picked it up with both hands and looked at it for a moment. A fresh wave of nervousness crossed her face. Then she glanced down at the clear bulge in my trousers and a small, nervous but teasing smile touched her lips.
“Look how excited you are…” she said softly. “Your wife is only wearing a blouse and already you are like this.”
I did not deny it.
She held the yellow blouse open in front of her.
“Help me wear it,” she said. “It hooks in the front.”
I took the yellow blouse from her hands. She raised both arms slightly. I guided her right arm through the right armhole, then her left arm through the left armhole. The sleeveless yellow blouse settled over her shoulders and my white bra.
She brought the two front edges of the yellow blouse together across her chest. I stepped closer and began fastening the front hooks one by one. The first hook closed just above the soft upper curve of her breasts. The second hook closed in the middle. The third hook closed lower, tightening the yellow blouse firmly over my white bra. Her heavy breasts filled the yellow blouse completely, the bright yellow stretching smoothly over their full shape.
I adjusted the yellow blouse slightly on her shoulders so it sat evenly.
My wife looked down at herself, then back at the open hardness in my trousers. The nervousness was still there in her eyes, but the teasing edge remained in her voice when she spoke again.
“You’re staring so much…” she said quietly. “Is this what you wanted to see before he comes? Your wife in a yellow blouse… already hard like this?”
She turned toward the mirror and looked at her reflection for a few seconds. The yellow blouse, my white bra underneath, the white petticoat, and my maroon panties beneath it — everything was in place so far.
She glanced at me once more over her shoulder, still noticing how excited I remained, and spoke in a low voice.
“Now the saree.”
My wife stood in front of the bed wearing the yellow blouse, my white bra underneath it, the white petticoat, and my maroon panties beneath the petticoat.
The yellow saree lay neatly folded on the bed. She looked at it for a long moment. Her fingers lightly touched the thin gold border. The nervousness on her face was clear now — not teasing, just quiet and real. She was doing this for me, and both of us knew it.
“Help me,” she said softly.
I picked up the yellow saree. My cock was still hard inside my trousers, and every movement of her body in the yellow blouse only made it worse. I kept my face controlled, but the heat in my stomach was strong.
She held the white petticoat in place with one hand. I took one end of the yellow saree and tucked it firmly into the waist of the white petticoat on her left side, just below her navel, near the bow knot. I made sure it sat secure and neat.
“Tight enough?” I asked.
She nodded once.
I began wrapping the yellow saree around her waist from left to right. The bright yellow moved across her wide hips and the soft curve of her lower stomach. I brought it around her back, then to the front again, keeping the pleats even at the waist. My fingers brushed against her body through the yellow saree and the white petticoat as I worked. Each small contact sent another pulse of heat through me.
She stood still, breathing quietly, letting me dress her.
I made the pleats carefully at the front — even, neat folds of the yellow saree that I tucked securely into the white petticoat. The yellow saree now sat firmly around her waist, covering the white petticoat from the hips down, with the remaining length ready to dbang.
“Now the pallu,” she said, her voice still nervous.
I took the remaining length of the yellow saree, brought it under her right arm, across the front of her body, and over her left shoulder. The bright yellow pallu fell down her back. I adjusted it so that it covered the full shape of her heavy breasts under the yellow blouse in the front and hung neatly behind her.
I stepped back and looked at her.
My wife stood fully dressed now in the yellow saree, yellow blouse, white petticoat, my white bra, and my maroon panties. The bright yellow made her heavy breasts look fuller. Her long black hair rested over one shoulder. She looked beautiful, traditional, and deeply nervous.
She glanced down at the clear hardness still visible in my trousers, then back up at my face. Her large dark eyes were soft and slightly unsteady.
“I’m ready,” she whispered. “I’m doing this only for you.”
I was still hard. Still excited. And the knowledge that she was fully dressed and waiting for Arjun because of me made the heat inside me even stronger.
My wife stood in front of the dressing table mirror, fully dressed in the yellow saree, yellow blouse, white petticoat, my white bra, and my maroon panties.
She looked at her reflection for a few seconds, then spoke quietly.
“Just light makeup,” she said. “Nothing heavy. Only the minimum. I’ll do it myself.”
I nodded and stepped back slightly, giving her space. I remained standing behind her, watching every movement in the mirror.
She is really doing this. For me.
She opened the small makeup pouch on the dressing table.
First she took a little moisturiser and warmed it between her fingers. She applied it gently over her own face — forehead, cheeks, nose, chin — in light, even strokes until her face looked fresh and smooth. I watched her fingers move carefully across her skin, my cock still hard inside my trousers.
A few hours ago she was just my wife. Now she is preparing her face for another man because I asked her to.
Next she used a very light compact powder. She dipped the soft pad and dusted it lightly across her forehead, down her nose, over her cheeks and chin. Just enough to even her complexion. Nothing more.
She picked up the kohl pencil.
I watched as she carefully drew a thin line of kohl along her upper lash line on both eyes, keeping it simple and clean. Then she applied a light touch of mascara to her upper lashes, just enough to darken them slightly. Her large dark eyes looked deeper now, but still natural.
She looks beautiful. And she is doing all of this while knowing exactly who is coming.
Finally she took a soft, nude-pink lipstick. She parted her lips slightly and applied it carefully, following the natural shape of her mouth, then pressed a tissue lightly against her lips so the colour stayed minimal and clean.
She placed the lipstick down and looked at herself in the mirror.

[novelistcasanova]

Light moisturiser, light powder, thin kohl, a touch of mascara, and soft nude lipstick. Nothing heavy. She looked fresh, elegant, and quietly beautiful in the yellow saree.

The entire time she did her makeup, I stood behind her and watched. My cock remained hard. Standing so close, seeing her prepare her own face for another man, smelling her freshly washed body, watching the yellow saree shift slightly with every small movement — the heat in my stomach never went down. Every detail only made it stronger.
But for a moment, as I looked at her fully ready in the yellow saree, a different thought crossed my mind.
Was this really a good idea?
Letting a stranger come into our house at this hour… letting him put his hands on her… letting him enjoy the same body I just washed and dressed…
The doubt rose briefly, sharp and cold in my chest.
What if she enjoys it more than she expects? What if something changes after tonight?
Then I looked at her nervous eyes in the mirror, at the way her fingers slightly trembled as she closed the makeup pouch, at the quiet fact that she was doing every single thing only because she loved me — and the doubt mixed again with the same dark heat that had started at Santhosh’s funeral.
She is mine. She is doing this for me. That is enough.
She turned her face slightly toward me.
“Is it fine?” she asked softly.
I looked at my wife — fully prepared, lightly made up, dressed in the yellow saree, waiting for Arjun — and nodded.
“Yes,” I said. “You look ready.”
By the time we finished, the doorbell rang.
A single, firm knock.
My wife and I both froze for a second. Then she looked at me. I picked up my phone, switched on the video camera, and silently nodded. I stepped behind her and began recording.
She walked toward the main door. I followed closely with the camera, filming her from behind — the bright yellow saree dbangd over her wide hips, the way the pallu rested across her back, the soft movement of her heavy ass under the yellow saree with every step. The yellow blouse stretched across her back with each small movement of her shoulders.
She reached the door and paused for a brief moment, still nervous. Then she unlocked it and opened it.
Arjun stood outside.
He had showered. His hair was still slightly damp. He wore a simple shirt and trousers. The moment the door opened fully and he saw my wife, he stopped completely.
His eyes moved over her without any attempt to hide it.
First the yellow saree — the rich colour, the thin gold border, the way it wrapped around her waist and hips. Then the yellow blouse, sleeveless, stretched smoothly over the full shape of her heavy breasts. His gaze lingered there for a long second before moving up to her lightly made-up face, her large dark eyes, the soft nude lipstick on her lips, and her long black hair resting over one shoulder.
He looked completely spellbound.
For several seconds he simply stared, as if he could not process what he was seeing. His breathing changed. His eyes kept moving over her body again and again — the heavy breasts under the yellow blouse, the wide hips under the yellow saree, the quiet nervous beauty of her face. He looked like a man who could not believe his luck.
Finally he spoke, voice rough and slightly unsteady.
“Is this real…?”
I kept the camera on his face, recording every bit of his excited, almost disbelieving expression.
“Yes,” I said clearly from behind my wife. “It’s real.”
Arjun’s eyes flicked toward me for only a second, then immediately returned to my wife. He still looked stunned. His hands hung loosely at his sides, as if he was afraid that moving too suddenly might break the moment. He swallowed once, his gaze dropping again to the full shape of her heavy breasts under the yellow blouse, then lower to where the yellow saree wrapped around her hips.
“I… I didn’t think you were serious,” he said, still staring at her. “Not like this.”
My wife stood quietly in the doorway, fingers lightly holding the edge of the door, nervous but not stepping back. The yellow saree and yellow blouse made her look even more inviting under the house light.
I continued recording his face — the open hunger, the disbelief, the rising excitement he could no longer hide — as he stood there looking at my wife like a man who had just been given something he never expected to receive.
My wife closed the main door behind Arjun and turned to face him fully.
She stood in the living room in the yellow saree, yellow blouse, white petticoat, my white bra, and my maroon panties. Her lightly made-up face looked calm, but the nervousness was still present in her eyes. I continued recording from a few steps behind her, keeping both of them in the frame.
She spoke first, her voice quiet but clear.
“Before anything happens… there are rules.”
Arjun’s eyes were still moving over her body, but he forced himself to listen.
“I am doing this only for my husband,” she continued. “Not for you. Only for him. He is going to record the entire thing. Everything. You will not touch the phone. You will not ask me to stop the recording. You will not tell anyone about this night. Not a single word. Ever.”
She paused, letting the words settle.
“If you agree to that… then you can do anything you want with me tonight.”
Arjun finally looked at her face instead of her body. His breathing was still uneven. Up close, it was obvious he had ignored her earlier instructions — he had not taken a shower, and he had not brushed his teeth. The mild smell of the day still clung to him. But the hunger in his eyes was stronger than any hesitation.
“I agree,” he said immediately. “I won’t tell anyone. I won’t touch the phone. I don’t care about anything else.”
His gaze dropped again to the full shape of her heavy breasts under the yellow blouse, then lower to the yellow saree wrapped around her hips.
“I only want to enjoy you,” he said, voice thicker now. “That’s all. Nothing else matters.”
My wife held his eyes for a second longer, making sure he understood. Then she gave a small, nervous nod.
“Alright,” she said softly.
I kept the camera steady on both of them, recording the exact moment the agreement was sealed — my wife standing in the yellow saree, still nervous but committed, and Arjun standing in front of her, unshowered, unbrushed, already looking at her like a man who could not wait any longer.
My wife turned her head and looked straight at me.
The camera was still recording in my hand. Her large dark eyes held mine for a long second. In the yellow saree, with her lightly made-up face and the quiet nervousness still present, she looked both vulnerable and resolute.
“I love you,” she said softly, only for me.
Then she turned back to Arjun.
He stepped closer. One of his dark hands settled on the soft curve of her waist over the yellow saree. He pulled her in gently but firmly until her heavy breasts under the yellow blouse pressed against his chest. My wife’s hands rested lightly on his upper arms. She did not push him away.
Arjun leaned down and kissed her lips.
It was not a rough kiss. He pressed his mouth to hers slowly, tasting the soft nude lipstick she had just applied. His hand on her waist tightened a little as he kissed her deeper. My wife stayed still for the first few seconds, receiving the kiss. Then, remembering why she was doing this, she began to kiss him back — soft, deliberate movements of her lips against his.
When they finally parted, a thin shine of her nude lipstick was left on his mouth.
My wife looked at him and spoke quietly, still close enough that her breath touched his face.
“You didn’t brush your teeth.”
Arjun’s hand remained on her waist. A mild, almost sheepish look crossed his face.
“I forgot,” he said. “I was in a hurry after the call. I just came.”
My wife held his eyes for a moment. Then she glanced once more toward me and the camera. Whatever she saw in my expression made her decision clear. She raised one hand, placed it gently on the back of Arjun’s neck, and pulled his face down to hers again.
This time she kissed him first.
She pressed her lips to his more firmly, kissing him properly, giving him what he had come for. Arjun responded at once. His other hand joined the first on her waist, both palms spreading over the yellow saree as he pulled her tighter against him. Her heavy breasts flattened against his chest through the yellow blouse. He kissed her deeper, tilting his head, tasting her mouth without any more hesitation.
My wife let him.
She kissed him back for me — slow, continuous, and increasingly willing — while I stood a few feet away and recorded every second of it. The soft wet sound of their mouths meeting filled the quiet living room. Arjun’s hands moved slightly higher on her waist, fingers pressing into her soft waist under the yellow saree, but he did not try to undress her yet. He only held her and kissed her as if he could not get enough of her mouth.
My wife’s fingers tightened on the back of his neck.
She was still nervous.
But she was kissing him fully now, for me, while the camera captured everything.
Arjun finally broke the kiss.
His hands were still on my wife’s waist over the yellow saree. Both of them were breathing a little faster. A thin shine of her nude lipstick remained on his mouth. He looked at her for a second longer, then turned his eyes toward me and the camera.
“Where is the bedroom?” he asked, voice rough.
I lowered the phone slightly and nodded toward the corridor.
“That way. Last door on the right.”
Arjun did not wait for more instructions. He bent down, slid one arm under my wife’s knees and the other around her back, and lifted her off the floor in a full cradle carry. My wife let out a small, surprised breath as her body left the ground. Her yellow saree shifted with the movement. One of her arms instinctively went around his neck for balance. Her heavy breasts under the yellow blouse pressed against his chest as he settled her securely in his arms.
I immediately raised the phone again and began walking backwards down the corridor, keeping the camera fixed on them.
Arjun carried my wife toward the bedroom with steady steps. I filmed every moment — the way her yellow saree dbangd over his arms, the soft bounce of her heavy breasts against his chest with each step, the nervous but accepting expression on her face as she was carried like a bride by another man. Her long black hair hung down over his arm. The yellow pallu had shifted slightly, revealing more of the yellow blouse.
My cock was fully hard inside my shorts.
The sight of Arjun carrying my wife so easily, her body completely in his control while I walked backwards and recorded it, made the heat in my stomach almost unbearable. Every step he took toward our bedroom made my boner press tighter against the front of my shorts. I kept the camera steady, capturing the full scene — my wife in the yellow saree being carried in another man’s arms, and the open hunger on Arjun’s face as he held her.
He reached the bedroom door.
I stepped aside, still recording, and let him carry her inside.
Arjun carried my wife to the edge of the bed and slowly set her down on her feet.
I remained near the doorway, phone raised, continuing to record everything. My cock was still fully hard inside my shorts.
Arjun stood in front of her. For a moment he only looked at her in the yellow saree. Then he raised both hands and began to undo the yellow saree with deliberate care.
First he released the pallu from her left shoulder. The bright yellow length slid down her back and across her arm. He gathered it slowly, his dark fingers brushing against the yellow blouse as he brought the pallu around to the front. My wife stood still, breathing quietly, watching his hands.
He found the tucked end of the yellow saree at her waist and pulled it free from the white petticoat. The yellow saree loosened around her hips. Arjun began to unwrap it, walking slowly around her as the bright yellow length came away from her body in long, continuous folds. Each turn revealed more of the white petticoat underneath. The yellow saree slid across her wide hips, across the soft curve of her lower stomach, and finally left her completely.
He let the entire yellow saree fall to the floor in a soft heap.
My wife now stood in only the yellow blouse, the white petticoat, my white bra, and my maroon panties. The white petticoat still covered her from the waist down. Her heavy breasts rose and fell under the yellow blouse with each breath.
Arjun stepped closer again. He placed both hands on her waist over the white petticoat and pulled her against him. This time when he kissed her, it was deeper. My wife’s hands came up and rested on his chest. At first she only received the kiss. Then her lips began to move more actively against his.
I zoomed the camera slightly, capturing the exact way her mouth opened under his.
A soft sound escaped her throat.
Her fingers tightened on his shirt. When Arjun’s hands slid from her waist to the full curve of her ass over the white petticoat and squeezed, her body pressed forward into him. Her heavy breasts flattened against his chest through the yellow blouse. She kissed him harder.
After a few more seconds she broke the kiss just enough to turn her head toward me. Her large dark eyes found the camera, found my face. Her lips were slightly swollen, the nude lipstick mostly gone. Her breathing was uneven.
I could see it clearly — she was getting turned on.
She held my gaze for a long moment, as if trying to anchor herself. Her hands were still on Arjun’s chest. His hands were still gripping her ass over the white petticoat. She was fighting to stay in control, to remember that she was doing this for me, even as her body began to respond to the man holding her.
She looked at me with a mixture of nervousness, rising heat, and silent plea — trying not to lose control too quickly while I recorded every second of it.
Arjun’s hands left my wife’s ass over the white petticoat and moved up to the front of the yellow blouse.
He unhooked the front hooks one by one. The first hook opened. Then the second. Then the third. The yellow blouse fell loose. He slid it off her shoulders and down her arms. The yellow blouse dropped to the floor beside the yellow saree.
My wife now stood in my white bra, the white petticoat, and my maroon panties.
Arjun looked at her heavy breasts inside my white bra for a long second. Then he reached behind her, unhooked the three hooks of my white bra, and pulled it forward off her arms. My white bra joined the other clothes on the floor.
Her heavy breasts came free — full, soft, and bare under the bedroom light.
She’s bare in front of him. Because of me.
Arjun stared at them openly. Then he lowered his head and took her left breast into his mouth.
My wife’s whole body reacted at once.
A sharp breath left her throat as his mouth closed over her breast and he began to suck. His dark hand cupped the full weight of her right breast while he sucked the left, tongue moving over her nipple. My wife’s hands flew to his shoulders. Her head tilted back for a second before she forced herself to look toward me again.
I kept recording, my cock painfully hard inside my shorts. The sight of Arjun’s mouth on her bare breast, the way her heavy breast moved as he sucked, the wet sound of his mouth on her — everything made the heat in my stomach almost unbearable.
Look at how he’s sucking her. Look at how her body is already reacting. Did I make a mistake?
Arjun switched to her right breast, sucking harder, pulling more of the soft flesh into his mouth. His other hand squeezed her left breast, fingers sinking into the full shape. My wife’s breathing turned uneven and quick. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
She was losing control.
I could see it in the way her hips shifted, in the way her eyes half-closed, in the soft, unwilling sounds that kept escaping her throat. Arjun sucked her breasts with open hunger, moving from one to the other, leaving her nipples wet and tight.
A sharp jealousy cut through my arousal.
That is my wife’s breast in his mouth. Those are the same breasts I washed and prepared less than an hour ago. And now she is making those sounds for him. What if she starts enjoying this more than she should?
My wife forced her eyes open and looked straight at the camera, straight at me. Her voice came out shaky but clear.
“I love you…”
She is saying she loves me while another man has her breast in his mouth. I asked for this. I pushed for this. But watching it happen is harder than I expected.
She said it while Arjun’s mouth was still on her breast. She said it as if the words were the only thing keeping her from completely giving in. Her hands remained on his shoulders, no longer pushing him away, but she kept her eyes locked on me, trying to hold on to the reason she was allowing this.
I continued recording, harder than I had ever been, jealousy and lust twisting together in my chest, watching my wife fight to stay in control while another man sucked her bare breasts in our bedroom.
Arjun kept sucking my wife’s breasts without slowing down.
He moved from one to the other, mouth wet and hungry, dark hand squeezing whichever breast he was not sucking. My wife’s breathing had turned into soft, broken sounds. Her fingers were no longer just resting on his shoulders — they were gripping him. Her hips shifted again, pressing closer.
She was enjoying it.
I could see it clearly through the camera. The way her eyes half-closed, the way her lips stayed parted, the way her body leaned into his mouth instead of pulling away. The nervousness was still there, but underneath it something warmer and more dangerous had taken over.
Then my wife did something that sent a sharp knife of jealousy straight through my chest.
She raised both hands, held Arjun’s face, and pulled his mouth away from her breast. For a second he looked surprised. Then she leaned in and kissed him fully on the lips.
She kissed his filthy, unbrushed mouth with open hunger.
Her lips moved against his without hesitation. She tilted her head and deepened the kiss herself, tasting him, giving him her tongue. Arjun responded at once, both hands returning to her heavy breasts, squeezing them while she kissed him. The wet sound of their mouths filled the bedroom.
When she finally broke the kiss, she stayed close to his face, breathing hard, and spoke in a low, unsteady voice.
“I like you…”
The words hit me harder than anything so far.
She likes him.
My cock was still painfully hard inside my shorts, but the jealousy was now thicker than the lust. I kept the camera steady on them, recording the exact moment my wife — the same woman who had told me she was only doing this for me — looked at another man and said she liked him after kissing his filthy mouth.
Arjun stared at her, surprised and openly pleased. His hands were still full of her heavy breasts. My wife’s cheeks were flushed. Her lips were wet from the kiss. She glanced toward the camera once, toward me, but the heat in her eyes did not fully disappear.
She had started enjoying him.
And I was the one who had asked for it.
Arjun did not waste any more time.
He slid one arm under my wife’s knees and the other around her back, lifted her off the floor again, and placed her in the centre of our bed. Her long black hair spread across the pillow. Her heavy breasts, still wet from his mouth, rose and fell with her uneven breathing. The white petticoat was still tied around her waist.
I moved closer with the camera, recording every second from the side of the bed. My cock remained hard inside my shorts, jealousy and arousal twisting tightly together.
Arjun climbed onto the bed and knelt between her legs. He looked down at her for a moment — bare breasts, white petticoat, and my maroon panties still covering her underneath. Then he reached for the drawstring of the white petticoat, pulled the bow knot loose, and pushed the white petticoat up around her waist, fully exposing my wife's maroon panties.

[novelistcasanova]

My wife’s thick thighs were slightly apart. My maroon panties sat stretched across her hips and over her pussy, the soft material already showing a mild dark patch of wetness in the centre.

Arjun hooked his fingers into both sides of my maroon panties.
My wife lifted her hips slightly without being asked. He pulled my maroon panties down over her thick thighs, past her knees, and off her feet in one steady motion. He dropped them on the floor beside the bed.
My wife now lay on our bed completely bare from the waist down — white petticoat pushed up, heavy breasts uncovered, pussy fully exposed under the bedroom light.
Arjun stared at her open body with raw hunger.
I kept recording, the jealousy sharp in my chest, as another man looked at my wife’s bare pussy for the first time.
Arjun lowered himself between my wife’s open thighs.
He rubbed the thick head of his cock slowly up and down her already wet pussy, coating himself in her wetness, watching her face the entire time. My wife’s breathing was uneven. Her heavy breasts rose and fell. When he finally pushed in, he did it in one long, steady thrust until he was buried completely inside her.
A broken, pleasured sound left her throat.
“You’re so warm inside…” Arjun murmured against her cheek, already moving in deep, slow strokes.
My wife’s hands slid up his back.
“It feels… full…” she whispered back, voice soft and open. “Don’t stop…”
I recorded everything from the side of the bed. My cock was still hard inside my shorts, but the jealousy sat heavier than the arousal. This was my decision. I had asked for this. And now they were speaking to each other like lovers while his cock moved inside her.
Arjun kissed the side of her neck as he fucked her deeper.
“Your body is taking me so well…” he said, voice low and rough with pleasure. “I can feel how wet you are.”
My wife’s hips lifted to meet his thrusts.
“It feels good…” she admitted, almost shyly, even as she pulled him closer. “Keep going… just like that…”
They were completely lost in each other.
Arjun took one of her heavy breasts into his mouth and sucked while he continued the deep, steady rhythm. My wife held the back of his head, fingers in his hair, and let out a soft, helpless moan. Their bodies moved together without any stiffness left — only mutual hunger and rising pleasure.
I kept the camera steady.
The jealousy was sharp and bitter in my chest, mixed with open self-hatred. I had wanted to watch. I had prepared her. I had invited him. And now I was standing here recording my wife whispering pleasure into another man’s ear, holding him, moving with him, enjoying every stroke of his cock inside her.
Arjun lifted his head from her breast and looked into her eyes as he fucked her.
“You’re close…” he said quietly. “I can feel it.”
My wife nodded, breath breaking, thick thighs trembling around his waist.
“Yes… don’t stop… please…”
He kept the same deep, precise angle, driving into her again and again, holding her right at the edge. Her soft stomach tensed. Her heavy breasts moved with every thrust. Soft, desperate sounds left her mouth as she clung to him, right on the brink but not yet going over.
I stood there recording them — my wife and another man lost in each other like lovers — while the jealousy and self-hatred sat heavy in my chest, made worse by the simple truth that every second of this had been my own decision.
Arjun did not pull her back from the edge.
He kept the same deep, precise rhythm, driving into my wife again and again while she clung to him. Her thick thighs trembled harder around his waist with every thrust. Her soft stomach tensed and released. Soft, desperate sounds left her mouth. The wet sound of his cock moving inside her filled the bedroom — a continuous, slick schlick… schlick… schlick mixed with the heavier slap of his body against hers. Her heavy breasts moved in full, soft arcs with every stroke. I kept the camera steady from the side of the bed, recording the exact stretch of her pussy around his thick cock, the way her inner lips clung to him on every withdrawal, the fine sheen of sweat on her stomach and between her breasts.
“I’m going to…” she breathed against his neck, voice breaking into a whimper. “Arjun… I’m—”
“I know,” he said, voice rough and low against her ear. “Cum for me. Let me feel it.”
He fucked her through the final stretch without slowing, without mercy. His cock dragged almost all the way out until only the thick head remained inside her, then slammed back in to the root in one long, heavy thrust, hitting the same deep spot again and again. My wife’s fingers dug hard into the muscles of his back. Her thick thighs locked tighter around his waist, heels pressing into him. Her breathing turned into short, helpless gasps that rose higher with every stroke.
Then her body locked completely.
A long, broken cry tore from her throat as the orgasm hit her with full force.
“Ahhh—nnnghhh—!”
Her pussy clenched hard around his cock in strong, rhythmic pulses, squeezing and releasing in waves she could not control. Her back arched clean off the bed, lifting her heavy breasts toward the ceiling. Clear wetness spilled out around his cock in a sudden rush and ran down the soft curve of her ass onto the bedsheet in thick, shiny trails. Her thighs trembled so violently the bedframe gave a soft, continuous shake. Soft, helpless moans kept spilling from her open mouth while she came, one after another, broken and high.
“Ahh… ahh… mmnhh… ahh—”
Arjun groaned deep in his chest at the feeling of her climax milking him.
He kept thrusting into her spasming pussy, chasing his own release with sudden, urgent need. His strokes grew heavier, less controlled, more desperate — shorter, deeper, grinding. My wife, still trembling hard from her orgasm, held him tightly and moved with him, soft aftershocks still rippling through her stomach and thighs in visible waves. Her hands slid up his back and gripped his shoulders as if she needed something solid to hold onto while he used her.
“Inside…” she whispered, almost without thinking, still breathless and completely open. “Do it inside me… fill me…”
Arjun drove into her one last time with full force and buried himself to the absolute root. His dark body locked rigid against hers. Every muscle in his back and ass clenched hard.
“Ugh—fuck—”
A deep, guttural sound tore from his throat as he started cumming hard inside her. The first thick, hot pulse of cum exploded out of him and flooded deep into her pussy. Then another. Then another. He stayed pressed as deep as he could go, grinding in short, brutal circles of his hips, forcing every last drop out of his balls and into her. His ass clenched with each heavy release. My wife felt every single pulse — the heat, the pressure, the wet fullness spreading inside her.
“Nnnhh—ahh… ahh…”
She held him through it, her arms locked tightly around his back, her face turned into the side of his neck, breathing hard and broken against his skin as he filled her completely. Thick white cum began to leak out around the base of his cock in slow, heavy trails, running down onto the bedsheet with soft wet gluck sounds each time he pulsed again.
They stayed locked together for several long seconds afterward — his cock still buried deep inside her, still twitching with the last weak spurts, her thick thighs still wrapped around his waist, both of them breathing hard against each other, bodies still joined, still trembling, still wet with sweat and cum.
I stood at the side of the bed, camera still recording every detail, and watched another man cum inside my wife.
The jealousy was sharp, complete, and inescapable. They remained pressed together, lost in the aftermath of their shared climax, while I remained the man standing outside the moment I myself had created.
My wife’s breathing slowly steadied.
Arjun was still half-hard inside her, his body resting over hers. After a few more seconds he finally pulled out. A thick stream of his cum followed, leaking slowly from her stretched pussy onto the bedsheet. My wife winced softly at the empty feeling, then turned her head on the pillow and looked at me.
“Rajesh… come,” she said, voice still husky.
I walked closer, camera still recording. She slowly sat up, the white petticoat still pushed around her waist, her heavy breasts bare and marked from his mouth, her long black hair messy across her shoulders. Thick cum continued to leak slowly from her as she shifted to the edge of the bed. Arjun sat beside her, still naked, one hand resting possessively on her thick thigh.
My wife looked at him, then at the camera in my hand.
“Tell him,” she said quietly to Arjun. “Tell the camera how I was. Tell my husband exactly how much you enjoyed me.”
Arjun glanced at the phone, then back at my wife. A satisfied, still-hungry smile touched his mouth. His hand slowly stroked her thigh as he began to speak, looking straight into the camera.
“She was incredible,” he said, voice low and open. “The moment I pushed inside her, she was already so warm and tight. Her pussy gripped me from the first thrust. Every time I went deep she made those soft sounds… and then she started moving with me. She wasn’t just lying there. She was fucking me back.”
My jealousy sharpened with every word.
He continued, still stroking her thigh, eyes occasionally dropping to her bare breasts and the cum still leaking from her.
“Her breasts… soft, heavy, perfect in my mouth. When I sucked them she held my head and pressed me harder, like she wanted more. And when she came… her whole body locked. Her pussy squeezed my cock so hard I almost finished right there. She was shaking, moaning, wetness spilling out around me. I felt every pulse of her orgasm.”
My wife sat quietly beside him, cheeks flushed, looking down at her own lap while he spoke. She did not stop him.
Arjun’s voice grew even more detailed, more pleased.
“And when I came inside her… she asked for it. She told me to fill her. She held me while I pumped everything into her. I can still feel how she took every drop. Look at her now — still leaking my cum. Your wife took me completely. She enjoyed every second of it. And so did I.”
He turned his head and looked at my wife’s face with open satisfaction, then back at the camera.
“You have an amazing wife, Rajesh. Tonight she was mine. And she was perfect.”
I stood there recording every word, the jealousy thick and bitter in my chest, watching another man sit naked beside my wife on our bed and calmly describe, in detail, how thoroughly he had enjoyed her body — while her pussy still slowly released his cum onto the sheet between them.
Arjun kept one hand on my wife’s thick thigh and turned toward her fully. With his other arm he casually reached around her shoulders and pulled her lightly against his side. My wife did not resist. She settled against him, still naked from the waist up, his dark arm resting across her back.
“Your turn,” he said, looking at her with open satisfaction. “Tell the camera how I was. Tell your husband how much you enjoyed me… and my cock.”
As he spoke, his hand that had been on her thigh slowly moved up and cupped one of her heavy breasts. He began to play with it absently — squeezing the soft weight, brushing his thumb across her nipple, rolling it gently between his fingers while he waited for her answer. My wife glanced down at his hand on her breast but did not stop him. A small, embarrassed laugh left her throat. She looked down for a second, cheeks still flushed, and spoke in a low voice.
“At first… you were filthy,” she said. “You didn’t brush your teeth. You didn’t shower. When you kissed me I could taste it. It felt disgusting.”
She laughed softly again, shaking her head, as if she still could not believe she was saying any of this out loud while sitting naked, leaking his cum, and letting him play with her breast in front of the camera.
Arjun only smiled and continued slowly squeezing her heavy breast, thumb circling her nipple. He waited.
My wife’s smile slowly faded. She stayed quiet for a few seconds, then continued, her voice becoming more honest, more detailed, even as his fingers kept moving over her breast.
“But later… when you were inside me… it changed.”
I felt the jealousy tighten hard in my chest.
“Your cock is thick,” she said quietly, still looking at her own lap while Arjun casually played with her breast. “Thicker than I expected. When you pushed in, it stretched me properly. I felt full… completely full. Every time you went deep it hit a place that made my stomach tighten. I tried not to show it at first… but I couldn’t help moving with you.”
Her voice dropped even lower.
“And it’s black…” she added, almost under her breath. “Watching it go in and out of me… the contrast… it made everything feel more intense. When you started fucking me harder I stopped thinking about anything else. I only felt your cock. When I came, it was because of how deep you were and how thick you felt inside me.”
She finally lifted her eyes and looked at the camera — at me — for a brief second before looking away again. Arjun’s fingers continued their slow, possessive play on her heavy breast the entire time.
“I enjoyed it,” she admitted. “More than I thought I would. Your cock felt good. The way you held me… the way you sucked my breasts while you fucked me… the way you came inside me when I asked… I enjoyed all of it.”
Arjun gave her breast one last slow squeeze, then left his hand resting there, satisfied.
I stood there recording every word, the jealousy now total and heavy in my chest. Hearing my own wife describe another man’s thick black cock in detail — how it stretched her, how it made her cum, how she had asked him to finish inside her — while she sat on our bed leaking his cum and calmly allowed him to play with her breast in front of me, made the reality of what I had allowed cut deeper than anything else that night.
Arjun’s hand was still on my wife’s heavy breast when he spoke again, voice low and satisfied.
“We should meet again,” he said. “Not just once. Properly.”
My wife looked at him. For a second she hesitated. Then, still flushed and open from everything that had just happened, she gave a small nod.
“Maybe…” she whispered.
That single word was enough.
Arjun turned fully toward her, both arms going around her body. He pulled her down onto the bed with him. My wife let out a soft sound of surprise as they rolled together across the sheets. His mouth found hers again. They began kissing deeply, hungrily, bodies pressing and shifting. His hands moved over her back, her ass under the bunched white petticoat, her heavy breasts. She kissed him back, arms around his neck, their legs tangling as they rolled once more across the bed.
The soft wet sound of their mouths, the movement of their bodies, the quiet moans between kisses — it filled the room.
Something inside me snapped.
The jealousy that had been building all night finally turned into clean, sharp anger. I lowered the phone, stepped forward, and grabbed my wife’s arm firmly.
“Enough.”
I pulled her away from him in one strong motion. She broke the kiss with a startled breath, eyes wide, still half in the moment. Arjun sat up, surprised, his cock still half-hard, watching as I pulled my wife to her feet and positioned her behind me. She stood there in only the white petticoat, still pushed up around her waist, her heavy breasts bare, my maroon panties gone, his cum still slowly leaking from her.
I looked straight at him.
“Get dressed. Get out.”
Arjun stared at me for a second, then at my wife, who stood silent and suddenly uncertain behind me in the white petticoat. The easy confidence on his face faded. He didn’t argue. He stood up, picked up his clothes from the floor, and began dressing without a word. The atmosphere in the room had completely changed.
When he was fully dressed he glanced once more at my wife — still in the white petticoat, still with his cum slowly leaking from her — then at me.
I opened the bedroom door.
“Leave.”
Arjun walked out of the bedroom, down the corridor, and out of the main door. I followed just far enough to lock it behind him.
When I returned to the bedroom, my wife was still standing where I had left her, wearing only the white petticoat pushed up around her waist, silent, looking at me with a mixture of shock and lingering heat. The yellow saree, yellow blouse, my white bra and my maroon panties lay scattered on the floor. The bed was a mess of sheets and the clear evidence of what had just happened.
I stood there looking at her, the anger and jealousy still burning hot in my chest.
I locked the main door and walked back into the bedroom.
My wife was still standing near the bed. The white petticoat had fallen back down around her legs, covering her from the waist down. Her heavy breasts were bare. My maroon panties lay on the floor. Thick cum from Arjun was still slowly leaking down her inner thigh under the white petticoat. She looked at me with a mixture of uncertainty and leftover heat, unsure what I would do next.
I didn’t speak.
I walked straight to her, grabbed her by the waist, and pushed her hard onto the bed. She landed on the messy sheets with a startled gasp. I shoved the white petticoat roughly up around her waist, fully exposing her used pussy — still shiny, still open, still slowly releasing another man’s cum. The sight of Arjun’s cum leaking from her sent a fresh, angry heat through my entire body.
I freed my cock from my shorts and, without any preparation, pushed into her in one hard, deep thrust.
She was still soaked and loose from him. My cock slid in easily, surrounded by the wet heat of her pussy and the slick remains of his cum. A sharp sound left her throat as I buried myself to the root.
I began fucking her hard.
There was no gentleness left in me. I held her thick thighs wide open and drove into her with deep, angry strokes. The wet sound of my cock moving through another man’s cum filled the room. Her heavy breasts bounced hard with every thrust. I wanted her to feel the difference. I wanted her body to remember who she belonged to.
“You enjoyed his cock,” I said, voice rough and low as I fucked her. “You told him it felt good. You told him it was thick. You asked him to cum inside you.”
She turned her face toward me, breathing hard, eyes wide. She did not deny any of it. That only made the anger sharper.


I leaned down, still thrusting deep, and spoke against her ear.
“I’m better than him.”
I fucked her harder to prove it — longer strokes, deeper angles, grinding against her clit at the end of every thrust. The bed creaked under the force. Clear wetness and the last of Arjun’s cum spilled out around my cock with every impact. Her soft stomach tensed. Her thick thighs began to tremble around my waist.
“Rajesh…” she breathed, voice breaking.
I didn’t slow down. I kept driving into her, using every bit of the jealousy and anger that had built while I watched her moan for him, hold him, cum on his cock, and then calmly describe how much she had enjoyed it. I wanted to fuck those words out of her body. I wanted her to feel that I could take her harder, deeper, more completely than he had.
Her hands gripped my arms. Soft, rising moans left her mouth as I kept the relentless pace. Her heavy breasts moved with every thrust. Her pussy, still slick with his cum, began to tighten around me.
I shifted her legs higher, almost folding her, and drove even deeper. A louder, more helpless sound left her throat. I watched her face closely — the way her lips parted, the way her eyes half-closed, the way she could no longer fully control the sounds she was making for me.
“Feel that?” I said between hard thrusts. “That’s me. Not him.”
She nodded weakly, breathless, her thick thighs shaking harder around me. The jealousy in my chest mixed with a dark, possessive satisfaction as I felt her body start to respond more strongly to every stroke.
I kept the same hard, relentless pace, determined to make her body acknowledge the difference.
Her soft stomach tensed harder with every thrust. Her heavy breasts bounced in full, soft arcs. Soft, broken moans turned into higher, more desperate sounds that she could no longer hold back. She was getting close — this time from me, from the angry, jealous way I was reclaiming her on the same bed where another man had just finished inside her.
“You’re mine,” I said against her mouth, fucking her through every rising wave. “Not his. Mine.”
Her fingers dug into my arms hard enough to leave marks. Her thick thighs locked tighter around my waist, heels pressing into my lower back as if she needed me deeper. I could feel her pussy starting to flutter and clench around my cock in short, involuntary pulses as she approached the edge. The wet sound of our bodies filled the room — slick, heavy, continuous. The creak of the bed mixed with it. The leftover slickness of Arjun’s cum was being fucked deeper into her with every thrust, mixing with her fresh wetness around my cock.
I didn’t stop.
I fucked her with the full force of everything I felt — the jealousy that had burned while I watched her moan for him, the anger of hearing her describe his thick black cock in detail, the raw need to prove I was better, the deep, possessive drive to take back what I had temporarily given away. Every stroke was deliberate. Every grind against her clit at the end of a thrust was meant to mark her. Her breathing broke completely. Her body wound tighter and tighter under me.
Then her orgasm hit.
A long, broken cry tore from her throat.
“Ahhh—nnnghhh—!”
Her pussy clenched hard around my cock in strong, rhythmic waves, squeezing and releasing in pulses she could not control. Her back arched clean off the bed. Her heavy breasts shook. Clear wetness spilled out around my cock and ran down the curve of her ass onto the already messy sheet. Soft, helpless moans kept spilling from her open mouth as she came.
“Ahh… ahh… mmnhh… ahh—”
The tight, rhythmic milking of her climax pulled me over the edge with her. I drove into her one last time with full force and buried myself to the root.
“Ugh—fuck—”
A deep, guttural sound tore from my throat as I started cumming hard inside her. Thick, hot pulses flooded her pussy, adding my own release to the mess Arjun had already left. I stayed pressed as deep as I could go, grinding through every spurt, forcing every drop into her while her pussy continued to clench around me. My cock twitched again and again as I claimed her completely.
“Nnnhh—ahh…”
She hugged me through it, arms locked around my back, face turned into the side of my neck, still trembling, still moaning softly as I filled her. I could feel the heat of my cum mixing with what was already inside her. I could feel her body accepting it — accepting me.
We stayed locked together afterward, breathing hard, sweaty, my cock still buried deep inside her. The jealous anger slowly settled into something quieter but heavier and more permanent. I remained inside her, feeling the slow leak of mixed cum around my cock, feeling the way her thick thighs still hugged me, feeling the way her heavy breasts rose and fell against my chest.
I had taken her back.
On the same bed, in the same body another man had just used, I had made her cum for me and filled her again. She was still trembling under me, still hugging me, still open for me.
My wife was mine again.
We stayed joined for a long time afterward.
My cock softened slowly inside her, still buried deep, surrounded by the mixed heat of my cum and Arjun’s. My wife’s arms remained around my back. Her thick thighs still hugged my waist. Her heavy breasts rose and fell against my chest with every uneven breath. The room was quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the soft, occasional drip of cum onto the sheet beneath us.
I rested my forehead against hers.
After a long silence I spoke, voice low and steady.
“No one else is going to fuck you again.”
My wife’s fingers tightened slightly on my back. She looked into my eyes in the dim light, still flushed, still open, still marked by everything that had happened.
“I mean it,” I continued. “What happened tonight… stays tonight. I will not share you again. You are mine. Only mine.”
She searched my face for a moment. Then she gave a small, quiet nod.
“Alright,” she whispered. “Only you.”
I kissed her slowly — deeper this time, without anger, without jealousy, just possession and the residual heat of what we had just done. She kissed me back, soft and accepting, her body still open under mine. I felt the slow leak of our mixed cum around my cock as I stayed inside her a little longer, unwilling to leave the place I had just reclaimed.
Eventually I pulled out.

[novelistcasanova]

A thick mixture of both our releases followed, running down the curve of her ass onto the already ruined sheet. My wife lay there in the white petticoat pushed up around her waist, heavy breasts bare, long black hair spread across the pillow, looking at me with quiet, complicated emotion.

I lay down beside her and pulled her against me. She came willingly, resting her head on my chest, one heavy breast soft against my side. My hand settled on the warm curve of her hip over the white petticoat.
Outside, the night was still.
Inside our bedroom, the air smelled of sex and sweat and the irreversible truth of what we had allowed.
My wife was mine again.
And this time, I would not let go.
My cock softened slowly inside her, still buried deep, surrounded by the mixed heat of my cum and Arjun’s. My wife’s arms remained around my back. Her thick thighs still hugged my waist. Her heavy breasts rose and fell against my chest with every uneven breath. The room was quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the soft, occasional drip of cum onto the sheet beneath us.
I rested my forehead against hers.
After a long silence I spoke, voice low and steady.
“No one else is going to fuck you again. And I will not fuck anyone else either.”
My wife’s fingers tightened slightly on my back. She looked into my eyes in the dim light, still flushed, still open, still marked by everything that had happened.
“Promise me,” she whispered.
“I promise,” I said. “Only you. From now on, only each other. No one else.”
She nodded, eyes soft and serious.
“I promise too,” she said. “Only you. No one else will ever touch me again.”
We sealed it with a slow, deep kiss. She kissed me back fully, her body still open under mine, the last traces of another man’s cum still leaking slowly around my cock as I stayed inside her a little longer.
When we finally pulled apart, she rested her head on my chest. I stroked her hair in silence for a while. Then the bitterness of how all of this had started rose again in my throat.
“That bastard Santhosh,” I muttered. “If he hadn’t died… if that funeral hadn’t happened… none of this would have started. Fucking dead bastard. Even from the grave he caused all this.”
My wife let out a quiet, tired breath against my skin.
“Yes,” she whispered. “That bastard Santhosh… and his parents. All of them. Because of their deaths this whole thing began.”
I pulled her tighter against me. She came willingly, one heavy breast soft against my side, the white petticoat still pushed up around her waist, our mixed cum slowly drying on her thighs.
Outside, the night was still.
Inside our bedroom, we lay together in the aftermath — spent, marked, and bound by a promise that no one else would ever come between us again.
And somewhere in the quiet, we both silently cursed the dead man whose funeral had opened the door to everything.
The next morning we woke up tangled together in the same messy bed.
The white petticoat was still pushed up around my wife’s waist. Dried cum from both Arjun and me marked her inner thighs. For a long moment neither of us spoke about the promise we had made in the dark. We simply looked at each other, the weight of the previous night still sitting between us.
We got up and went to the bathroom together.
Under the warm shower I washed her body slowly — her heavy breasts, her soft stomach, the thick thighs that still carried the memory of two men. She washed me in return. There was little talking. Only the quiet understanding that something had shifted, even if we had sworn it would not happen again.
After the shower she dried herself and stood in front of the cupboard.
She put on a white bra and white panties first. The white bra lifted and held her heavy breasts securely. The white panties sat snugly over her pussy and stretched across her thick thighs. Over them she chose a white kurti top and pink leggings. The white kurti was simple and modest, but it still followed the full shape of her heavy breasts under the white bra. The pink leggings clung tightly to her wide hips and thick thighs, the white panties hidden underneath. She left her long black hair loose. No heavy makeup — just the same light, clean look from the previous night.
We left for the temple.
The place was almost empty when we arrived. Only the old priest sat near the inner sanctum, half-dozing. The smell of incense and oil hung in the air. Soft morning light came through the high openings.
And then we saw him.
Arjun stood near one of the side pillars, as if he had been waiting. The moment our eyes met his, something sharp and unwanted moved through both me and my wife at the same time. The promise from last night suddenly felt thin. Heat stirred low in my stomach. I saw the same shift in her eyes — the quiet, reluctant recognition of the same hunger.
Arjun walked toward us without hesitation.
He stopped in front of my wife, looked at her in the white kurti top and pink leggings, and then simply pulled her into a full hug. His arms went around her waist. Her heavy breasts pressed against his chest through the white kurti and white bra. Before she could speak, he tilted her face up and kissed her lips right there in the quiet temple corridor.
My cock thickened immediately inside my trousers.
My wife’s hands rested on his arms. She did not push him away. The kiss lasted several long seconds. When they finally parted, her breathing had already changed.
The old priest had woken fully by then. He sat frozen, eyes fixed on the scene — the way Arjun’s hands stayed on my wife’s waist, the way her pink leggings stretched across her thick thighs, the clear arousal on all our faces. His own breathing grew heavier. An old, unexpected hunger appeared in his eyes.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then I looked at the priest, at Arjun, at my wife standing between us in the white kurti and pink leggings, already flushed from the kiss. The promise from last night was still there, but the heat of the present was stronger.
I nodded once toward the small priest’s room at the side of the temple.
We took her inside.
The room was narrow, dim, smelling of old wood and camphor. The door closed behind us. My wife stood in the centre, still in the white kurti top, pink leggings, white bra and white panties, looking from me to Arjun to the old priest, her nervousness mixed with the same rising heat that had taken hold of all three of us.
This time we did not wait for turns.
Arjun pulled the pink leggings and white panties down to her thighs together and bent her forward over the low wooden table. I moved in front of her, freed my cock, and guided it between her lips. The old priest stepped to the side, hands already pushing the white kurti up and pulling the white bra down so her heavy breasts hung free, squeezing and rolling her nipples while Arjun pushed into her pussy from behind in one deep thrust.
My wife moaned around my cock as she was filled from both ends at once.
Arjun fucked her with steady, heavy strokes, his hands gripping her wide hips. I held her head and moved in and out of her mouth while she struggled to take both of us. The old priest kept his hands busy on her heavy breasts, pinching and sucking at them in turn. The small room filled with the wet sounds of her mouth, the slap of Arjun’s body against her ass, and her muffled, broken moans.
We used her together without pause.
When Arjun’s rhythm grew more urgent, I pulled out of her mouth and let the old priest take my place. My wife’s saliva-slick lips closed around the old man’s cock while Arjun continued pounding into her from behind. I stood to the side and watched, stroking myself, the jealous heat mixing with the dark thrill of seeing her take two men at once.
Arjun finished first, driving deep and flooding her pussy with thick cum while she moaned around the old priest’s cock. He stayed buried inside her through every pulse. When he finally pulled out, cum leaked down her thick thighs. The old priest lasted only a little longer before he came in her mouth with a low, shaky groan. She swallowed what she could.
I took her last while she was still bent over the table, pussy open and dripping, mouth shiny, white bra pulled down under her heavy breasts, pink leggings and white panties around her thighs. I fucked her hard and deep, hands on her waist, watching Arjun’s cum being pushed out around my cock with every thrust. She came while I was inside her, thighs shaking, a long muffled cry leaving her throat. I followed soon after, adding my own release to the mess already inside her.
When it was over, my wife remained bent over the table in the white kurti top, white bra pulled down, pink leggings and white panties around her thighs, breathing hard, used by all three of us at once.
None of us spoke about the promise.
Outside, the temple remained quiet.
Arjun was the first to pull away.
He adjusted his clothes, glanced once more at my wife still bent over the table in the white kurti top, white bra pulled down, pink leggings and white panties around her thighs, and spoke in a low voice.
“I have work. I need to go.”
He did not wait for a reply. He stepped out of the small priest’s room and left the temple without looking back.
The old priest remained.
He stepped closer to my wife, gently turned her face toward him, and kissed her lips — slow, lingering, almost grateful. When he pulled back, he looked at her with open satisfaction and spoke quietly.
“Thank you for your pussy.”
My wife’s cheeks coloured. She said nothing.
I helped her pull the white bra back into place, then the white panties and pink leggings. She smoothed the white kurti top down over her body with slightly unsteady hands. Neither of us looked at the priest again.
We left the temple in silence.
The morning light outside felt harsher than when we had entered. We walked to the car without speaking. The guilt settled over both of us the moment the temple was behind us — heavy, quiet, and shared. The promise we had made the previous night, the words we had spoken while still joined in our own bed, now felt broken and distant.
In the car my wife stared out of the window. I drove without turning on the music. The wetness between her thighs, the taste of what had just happened, and the knowledge that we had both given in again sat between us like a third presence.
When we reached home, we locked the door behind us.
Neither of us spoke about Arjun.
Neither of us spoke about the priest.
Neither of us spoke about the promise we had already failed to keep.
We simply went inside, the quiet of the house closing around us, and the story of what began at Santhosh’s funeral settled into something unfinished and irreversible.
End.

[ananth1986]

Different way of a story of adultery.
Nicely written by you Novelistcasanova.
Thank you.

[Saibabugvs]

Sir you have clear to the point way of writing style. You complete all your stories and never leave them in mid which is great effort and great writers traits. I'm great fan of your stories