How my wife got gangbanged by multiple men in mela

[Givemeextra]

CHAPTER 2
I swallowed and shook my head to clear it. Only a little way down the road, a group of guys was approaching and I knew that they’d stare at my wife, too. By now, though, she was looking ahead of her and would be sure to notice. So, for the first time, I took action. I waited until they were nearly on us, until they were already starting to look at her, and I pointed something out in a store window on the other side of the street. She looked towards my pointing finger, and that left the guys free to stare.

And stare they did. Long, hungry looks at her breasts and legs. And because they were in a group, more than that. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they mimed squeezing her breasts with their hands, muttering obscene comments to each other. I wanted to hear them. I wanted—needed—to hear every word they were saying. In my mind, I could see them pushing her into a dark doorway, one of them covering her hungry, gasping mouth with his as the others groped and fondled her breasts, hands yanking up her lehenga, fingers working beneath until the street echoed with the cries of her orgasm.

I stumbled, nearly pulling Nandini down with me.

“Are you okay?” she asked, worried.

I told her I was. But the truth is, I was better than okay. I’d discovered something new about myself. I loved showing off my wife, having other men stare at her and fantasize about her. And maybe more. In the darkest, deepest recesses of my mind, I imagined her letting them touch her…even kiss her. And when I was alone and jacking off, I even thought of them between her thighs, a hard cock sliding into her as she gasped and moaned.

That scared me, a little. Was there something wrong with me, that I got turned on by the idea of my wife with another? It wasn’t that I didn’t feel jealousy—the idea of another guy with my wife made my chest close up tight with rage...but the anger was blended with lust. I knew I never wanted anything to actually happen—well, maybe if someone kissed her, that would be okay—so that left me playing around the edges. I bought Nandini lehengas that barely reached down to mid thigh: she didn’t wear them. I tried to get her into higher heels: she refused. Occasionally, I’d persuade her to wear a tight dress with a scoop neck and then I could enjoy the way the waiter gulped and swallowed and angled for a better look as he was serving her, or the way the cab driver stared in his rear view mirror at her.

I never told Nandini what was really going on in my head. And however hard I tried, she was far too shy to do any serious teasing.

That’s how I hit upon the idea of the Mughal-e-azam nauchandi. Being in a completely new environment, where the norms were different and everyone was dressed up, might help her to let loose. All the other women would be in similar clothes, so she wouldn’t feel out of place. And I knew that lots of guys went there specifically to drool at the women, so she’d get plenty of attention. We were both pretty busy with work, but we cleared our diaries for the final afternoon of the nauchandi. It sounded perfect.

I had no idea how wrong it would go.



“I can make you a member of the gentry or a daaku vaishya,” said the costumier.

“daaku vaishya,” I broke in. “Definitely daaku vaishya.” vaishya had to be good, right?

Nandini bit her lip prettily. “Um…okay. Sure.”

The man handed her a large bundle of dark red fabric, a small blue and black bundle and finally some hard, curved black panels joined with laces. Nandini looked uncertainly at the pile, but thanked the man and went into the changing room.

Moments later, she stuck one arm out of the curtains and beckoned me in. I slid into the small room with her. “What’s up?”

She was standing in just her black bra and panties, with the black thing around her waist. It was some sort of corset, one that only covered her from just above her pubis to well below her breasts. “I think you’re meant to lace me into it,” she said nervously.

I just stood there for a second, stunned. Sometimes it hit me just how gorgeous she was. She was heartbreakingly beautiful, and she was mine.

“What?” she asked nervously.

I shook my head. “Nothing. You’re just beautiful.”

She blushed and I started to lace her into the corset. As I pulled on the laces at the back, it tightened, shrinking her waist and making her breasts appear even bigger. “That’s enough,” she said.

I couldn’t help it. “I think it’s meant to be tighter,” I said. And I pulled the laces harder. I watched as her waist shrank more, until her already impressive figure was a mouthwatering hourglass.

“Stop!” she gasped. “I can hardly breathe!”

I stopped. “Is it okay?” I asked. “Do you want me to loosen it?”

She took a few breaths, looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head. “No. I’m okay. I can wear it for a few hours. God, no wonder women used to faint all the time.” She took another hesitant breath. “God, I bet I couldn’t run or…anything.”

Her eyes went distant for a second and I presumed she was thinking of how uncomfortable she’d be all day. I felt suddenly guilty. I’d just wanted her to get lots of attention; I didn’t want to spoil the day for her. “I’ll loosen it,” I said, and reached for the laces.

“No!” she said quickly. And then she blushed. “It’s fine.”

The blue and black bundle turned out to be a figure-hugging top, tight enough that it showed off her nipped-in waist and the magnificent swell of her breasts. There was only one problem.

“I can’t wear a bra,” she said. The dress was strapless—or, rather, it had straps but they were designed to go down around the upper arms. A bra’s shoulder straps would be clearly visible, ruining the look.

Nandini reluctantly stripped off her bra. My wife has the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen, full and heavy, the same delicate skin tone as the rest of her, pale and somehow vulnerable. They’re topped with perfect, pencil-eraser style nipples, light pink with small areolae.

She pulled the dress up over her breasts. The top of the dress was tight enough that it squeezed her breasts together, making them bulge provocatively out of the top. She heaved the dress as high as it would go, but she has quite a long torso, and the dress would go no higher. Her nipples were barely hidden. I could feel my cock harden in my pants. It was perfect!

“It’s awful!” she said mournfully. “I can’t go out like this!”

“Everyone will be dressed like that.” I rubbed her bare shoulder to reassure her. “You look great.”

Biting her lip again, she put on the lehenga. It was made of some light, iridescent material in dark red that shone as it caught the light. It was long, covering her almost to the ankles, and at first glance not very sexy. There was no slit up the side at all.

We went back out into the main tamboo and the costumier clapped his hands, telling my wife how good she looked—and I noticed that his eyes went straight to her cleavage. Nandini looked as if she was about to change her mind, but then he handed her the rest of her costume—knee high daaku jooti with silver buckles and a belt from which hung a sword and a dagger. For the first time, I saw Nandini smile. “I get a sword?” she asked excitedly.

She didn’t bother going back into the changing room, just put her foot into one of the jooti and then placed it onto a chair to do up the buckles. This meant hiking her lehenga up above the knee, and the costumier and I were treated to a display of gorgeous, toned thigh. Under the lehenga, she was wearing only a flimsy pair of black briefs. It might be long, but its looseness meant it could be pulled up very easily…in some ways, I realized, she was more exposed and accessible than if she’d been wearing a tight, short lehenga.

Nandini put her other boot on and tried walking. The jooti had heels that must have been over three inches high. They wenai’t as obvious as a spiked stiletto heel, but they had the same effect. With every step my wife took, her ass swayed provocatively and her breasts jiggled and bounced. I couldn’t stop staring at her. She looked incredible! My only concern was that, when she realized how sexy she looked, she’d call a halt to the whole thing.

Fortunately, she was more interested in putting on the leather belt that held her dagger and sword. With it buckled around her hips, she really did look like a daaku vaishya. She tried to draw her sword, but found it was locked into its scabbard with bright orange zip ties. “What are these for?” she asked.

“It’s peace bonded,” said the costumer. “That’s a real sword and a real dagger. We don’t want you hurting anyone. Security will stop anyone they see carrying weapons that aren’t peace bonded.”

She pouted just a little. “I can’t swing it around?”

“No! You could take someone’s head off!” the costumer told her.

“You still look pretty badass,” I said.

“I do?” she asked shyly. “Really?”