Adultery Wife helps me become a cuckold

[incest_cuck]

After a month of moving into our new apartment, the first sign of trouble reared it's ugly head on a sweltering Tuesday morning. I'd just stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and desperate for a piss, when I heard it - an ominous gurgling from the bathroom.

"Shit!" I muttered, fumbling with my boxers as I approached the toilet. The water level was rising rapidly, dirty and foul-smelling. I jammed my hand into the tank, frantically jiggling the flush mechanism. Nothing.

"Aradhya!" I called out, panic rising in my throat. "We've got a problem!"

My wife appeared in the doorway, her hair mussed from sleep. "What's wrong, Ari?"

"The fucking toilet's backed up," I groaned, gesturing helplessly at the porcelain menace. "It won't flush."

Aradhya's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Ugh, it reeks. Can't you fix it?"

I shot her an exasperated look. "Does it look like I know how to fix a toilet?"

For the next hour, we tried everything we could think of. Plunging, snaking, even pouring boiling water down the bowl. Nothing worked. The toilet gurgled mockingly, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"This is bullshit," I snarled, slamming the plunger down. "We're paying a fortune for this 'luxury' apartment, and the fucking toilet doesn't even work!"

Aradhya placed a calming hand on my shoulder. "Let's call the landlord. He'll have to send someone to fix it."

The conversation with our landlord, Mr. Banerjee, was an exercise in frustration. His nasal voice crackled through the speakerphone, each word grating on my already frayed nerves.

"But Arijit…", he whined, "surely you can handle a small plumbing issue? I thought you were an educated man."

I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to hurl the phone across the room. "Mr. Banerjee, with all due respect, I'm a software engineer, not a plumber. This is clearly a building issue, and it's your responsibility to fix it."

"Well, I don't know any reliable plumbers in that area," he hedged. "Perhaps you could find someone?"

"We just moved here!" I exploded. "We don't know anyone! This is your property, your problem!"

The argument went back and forth, my blood pressure rising with each passing minute. Aradhya paced behind me, her face a mask of concern. Finally, after what felt like hours, our landlord relented. "Fine, fine. I'll send over a local plumber I've used before. But if he says it's your fault, you're paying for it!"

I ended the call with a vicious jab, collapsing onto the sofa with a groan. Aradhya sat beside me, rubbing soothing circles on my back.

"It'll be okay, Ari." she murmured. "At least someone's coming to fix it."

The doorbell rang at precisely 2 PM. I opened the door, still irritated from the morning's ordeal. The man standing there was not what I expected.

"Good morning, sahab. " he rumbled, his voice deep and gruff. "I'm Harpreet. Here to fix the toilet." He was closer to Aradhya’s age (mid-late 20s), a mountain of a man, easily 6'2" and built like a wrestler gone slightly to seed. His arms, exposed by a grimy white t-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest, were covered in dirt and grime. A thick, well-groomed beard framed a face that looked like it had seen its share of bar fights.

"Uh, yes, come in," I stammered, with my 5’4” frame, suddenly feeling very small in comparison. As Harpreet lumbered past me, the scent of sweat and motor oil filled the air. His toolbox clanked against his meaty thigh with each step.

"Where's the problem?" he grunted, scanning our apartment with dark, appraising eyes.

"The bathroom's just down the hall," I replied, closing the door. "My wife can show you-"

As if on cue, Aradhya emerged from our bedroom, rubbing sleep from her eyes. My breath caught in my throat. In her groggy state, she'd forgotten about our visitor. Her nightdress, a flimsy scrap of silk and lace, clung to her curves like a second skin. The spaghetti straps had slipped off one shoulder, revealing more of her dusky, caramel-hued skin. Without a bra, the swell of her medium-sized breasts was clearly visible, her dark nipples pressing against the thin fabric.

"Ari? Who was at the-" Aradhya froze mid-sentence, suddenly wide awake as she noticed Harpreet.

For a moment, no one moved. I watched as Aradhya's eyes widened, taking in the plumber's imposing form. Her gaze lingered on his muscular arms, the tight stretch of his shirt across his broad chest. A flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks pink. Harpreet's reaction was equally telling. His dark eyes raked over Aradhya's body, drinking in the sight of her curves barely concealed by the thin nightdress. They paused on the outline of her nipples, clearly visible through the fabric, before moving to her face. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, into a smirk.

"Memsaab," he said, his voice noticeably huskier. "I'm here to... take care of your problem."

Aradhya swallowed hard, her hand flying to her throat. "Oh! Yes, the toilet. It's, um, this way."

As she led Harpreet to the bathroom, I couldn't help but notice the extra sway in her hips, the way the nightdress clung to the curve of her ass with each step. She glanced over her shoulder, ostensibly to ensure he was following, but I caught the way her eyes flicked appreciatively over his tall, broad and masculine frame.  A knot formed in the pit of my stomach, a mixture of jealousy and... something else. Something that made my pulse quicken as I watched my wife interact with this rough, imposing stranger. I trailed behind them, watching as Aradhya explained the issue to Harpreet. She gesticulated animatedly, her nightdress riding up her thighs with each movement. Harpreet nodded, his eyes never leaving her face, but I could see the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"No problem, memsaab," he said, his Punjabi accent thick and rich. "I fixing it fast-fast, you see." As Harpreet bent to examine the toilet, his shirt rode up, exposing a strip of tanned skin and the waistband of his underwear. I caught Aradhya biting her lip, her eyes fixed on the plumber's broad back.

"Uh, Aradhya?" I said, my voice coming out higher than intended. "Maybe you should get dressed while Harpreet works?"

She startled, as if remembering my presence. "Oh! Yes, of course. I'll just... be a minute."

As my wife hurried from the bathroom, Harpreet straightened up, his knowing gaze meeting mine. There was a challenge there, a primal assertion of dominance that made me want to look away.

"Don't worry, saar," he said, his tone deceptively casual. "I take good care of everything."

As I watched him turn back to his work, muscles rippling under his sweat-stained shirt, I couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't just talking about the toilet. The air grew thick with tension as Harpreet resumed his task. I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from his powerful form, watching as he manipulated tools with practiced ease. Each flex of his arms, each grunt of effort, sent a confusing jolt through my body. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as he worked, the silence broken only by the clink of metal on porcelain and the occasional sound of running water. I shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of my own inadequacy in the face of his raw masculinity. Finally, after what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Harpreet's movements slowed. He gave one last twist of his wrench, the muscles in his back bunching impressively under his thin shirt.

As he finished tightening the last bolt, he wiped his brow with a grimy forearm. "All set, sir. Should work fine now."

I nodded, relief flooding through me. "Thank you. Let me get your payment-"

But as I turned to fetch my wallet, Aradhya appeared in the doorway. She'd changed into a sundress, but it was hardly more modest than her nightgown. The thin fabric clung to her curves, the neckline dipping low to reveal the swell of her breasts.

Harpreet's eyes locked onto her, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Memsaab," he rumbled, his voice husky. "Toilet fixed."

Aradhya smiled, a slow, sultry curve of her lips. "Thank you so much. We really appreciate your help."

The air crackled with tension as they stared at each other. I cleared my throat awkwardly. "Right, well, let me get your money-"

"No need," Harpreet grunted, tearing his gaze away from Aradhya. He gathered his tools quickly, movements jerky and uncoordinated. "I come back later with bill." Before I could protest, he was gone, the door slamming behind him. I blinked, confused by the abrupt departure.

"Well, that was... odd," I muttered. Turning to Aradhya, I noticed a faint flush on her cheeks. "Listen, I'm sorry I didn't warn you about when he was coming. I should have-"

Aradhya waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, don't worry about it, Ari. It's no big deal." She paused, biting her lip. "So... what was his name again?"

"Harpreet.", I replied, a niggle of suspicion forming in my gut.

"Harpreet." she repeated, rolling the name on her tongue. "And where do you think he's from? Punjab, obviously, but which part?"

I shrugged, uncomfortable with her sudden interest. "I don't know. Why does it matter?"

Aradhya's eyes widened innocently. "Just curious. Do you think he'll come back with the bill sometime soon?"

The hope in her voice was unmistakable. I frowned, jealousy and something darker stirring in my chest. "Maybe. He seemed... distracted."

"Hmmm…", Aradhya hummed, a small smile playing on her lips. She stretched languidly, the movement causing her dress to ride up her thighs. "Well, I'm sure if he needs it, he knows where to find us."

I watched her saunter away, hips swaying hypnotically. The image of Harpreet's hungry gaze on my wife flashed through my mind, along with the memory of Aradhya's past preferences. As I stood there, stewing in my thoughts, memories of conversations past bubbled to the surface. Aradhya's college years in Delhi. Those Punjabi boyfriends she'd mentioned so casually, yet with a hint of nostalgia that had always niggled at me.

"Yeah," I muttered to myself, a mix of emotions churning in my gut. "I'm sure he does."

The rest of the day passed in a haze of unspoken tension. Aradhya seemed distracted, her mind clearly elsewhere. More than once, I caught her staring out the window, as if expecting - or hoping - to see a familiar hulking figure.