How my wife got gangbanged by multiple men in mela

[Givemeextra]

Epilogue



“Why didn’t you stop me?” asked Nandini.

We were looking at the pregnancy test and its accusatory blue bar. We’d done three, just to make sure. They were all the same.

I didn’t even entertain the notion of telling her the truth. We had a decision to make, and I didn’t want it to be tainted by guilt.

“The same reason you didn’t stop yourself,” I told her. “I…got carried away, I guess.” And I hugged her.


We decided, after much debate, that Nandini would keep the baby.

There was a lot to talk about. Even outside of the birth, our lives were changed forever. Nandini admitted to what I already knew: that she’d always harbored secret submissive fantasies, feeding them with bodice rippers that had never quite sated her desire. She needed to feel helpless in order to let go and unleash her inner Chinal.

I, meanwhile, had realized I’d been denying parts of my own desires. That moment when I’d come had woken me up to what was really going on in my head. I’d known that I loved to watch other men stare at my wife, that I loved to show her off and tease them. What I’d never admitted, even to myself, was that I wanted them to go further. Kissing. Groping. Sex. And, even from those very first fantasies, the night of our wedding anniversary, there was something about the other men. They had something I didn’t: a confidence, a swagger. Muscles, and a cock bigger than mine. It had taken the raja and his cruel trick to show me what I was: a cuckold.

Even when I knew, it took me a while to accept it. We went through an awkward stage where I tried, desperate to convince myself that I could satisfy her needs myself now that I understood them. I pinned her wrists to the bed and ripped her panties off, but…it didn’t feel right, for either of us. The problem wasn’t my lack of muscular stnaigth. It was my will. I didn’t want to treat her that way, even though she wanted it, even though a part of me wanted to see her treated that way. I wanted to watch…and I was surprised to find that I actually got harder when I thought about being made to watch.

At first, both of us were ashamed of our fantasies. But what had happened at the Mughal-e-azam nauchandi put things into a new sort of perspective. What we’d done and the way that we’d done it—especially the parts Nandini didn’t know about—had been clumsy and haphazard and dangerous. And we’d been left with a very permanent reminder, one that we couldn’t—and didn’t want to—undo. But at the same time, it hit us that we wenai’t bad people. We wenai’t terrorists or drug dealers. Ironically, the only bad bits of the experience—even the unplanned pregnancy, which we saw as a bad and a good thing—could have been avoided if we’d been honest with each other. It was our fear and our shame that caused problems, not living out our fantasies. We could do it again, we realized, and it wouldn’t hurt anyone, as long as we did it carefully.

And so I accepted what I was, and I accepted that I’d do whatever it took to keep Nandini happy. And she agreed that she could separate sex and love, and that we could play these games without it coming between us, as long as everything was open and honest.

We did some reading. We learned about safe, sane and consensual, and about consent play and red, amber and green safe words and much, much more. We joined the local groups for Mughal-e-azam nauchandis…and quickly discovered that the sorts of things that we’d experienced were not normal practice. But we found websites for people who liked to cuckold and be cuckolded, more for fetish groups into consent play, and more for those who liked to dress up. And just like us, there were people who mixed together all three.

The simple answer, of course, would have been to track down the king, the lohar and the others. But I knew I wouldn’t trust them not to abuse our trust and, though Nandini complained and didn’t understand why, I insisted we found new playmates. By the time we worked up the courage to start emailing contacts, Nandini was heavily pregnant and we couldn’t do much more than chat online and plan future meetings—but we had a lot of fun just doing that.

The baby was born and he looked enough like the two of us that he didn’t raise any questions. Sometimes I’d look at him and think he looked a little like the king, or like one of the sipahi, but ultimately it didn’t matter. He was ours, and we loved him.

Six months after the birth, when Nandini had recovered and we were ready to play for the first time, we sat in the den looking at the website for a different Mughal-e-azam nauchandi. This one didn’t have adult role play sessions, and we knew nothing sexual would happen at it. But a friend we’d made online was going to be there, and we were talking seriously about meeting up there, in costume…and maybe going back to his hotel room together. My wife in a zabardast vaishya’s costume, me—perhaps tied to a chair—and a strong, brutish man who’d take the helpless vaishya as he pleased, while telling me how tight and wet she was.

What could be better?