22-01-2025, 12:57 AM
(This post was last modified: 22-01-2025, 12:58 AM by Betacucky. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
As the sounds of ecstasy from the adjoining bedrooms grew louder, the thick tension between Neeraj and me felt nearly suffocating in the dim glow of the living room lamps. The rest of the house lay shrouded in murky shadows, leaving only small islands of flickering light dancing on the walls. The air itself was stifling—warm and heavy with the mingled scents of nervous sweat, lingering perfume, and a stale, unspoken dread. Clad only in our boxers, we stood rooted to the spot, each of us acutely aware of the other’s strained breathing and the sheen of perspiration on our skin. The muffled moans of our wives, echoing through the half-darkness, sent humiliating sparks of arousal through our bodies, resulting in shameful bulges we couldn’t fully hide. When I caught Neeraj adjusting himself—a subtle, uncomfortable gesture—it only made the situation more tangible, and I hated how deeply I could relate to his flustered embarrassment.
A sudden thud from Simran’s bedroom caught my attention—wooden bedframe meeting the wall in a steady, rhythmic pattern. The sharp squeaks it produced seemed to sync with her higher-pitched cries, a visceral reminder of her body being taken. Simran’s voice rose in a long whimper, “Ohhh... oh God... ohhh!” followed by a desperate plea of “Don’t slow down... please!” Her cries seemed to hit a new pitch with every thrust, and each syllable cut through my already fraying nerves.
In contrast, Ananya’s more guttural moans from the opposite room pulsed through me like electric jolts, each one making me hyper-aware of every tiny sensation. Even the slight rustle of my boxers against my thighs felt magnified, the cotton fabric brushing my skin with each shift, underscoring how little we wore. Neeraj shifted next to me; I heard the faint rub of his waistband against his stomach and realized with an uncomfortable jolt that he was adjusting himself again, probably just as attuned to every creak, every gasp, every collision from the adjoining rooms as I was.
Simran’s voice broke into soft, breathy cries through the closed door that quickly escalated into sharp gasps.
“Ahhh… ohhhh, so good,” she whimpered, her tone climbing with each thrust.
“Please don’t stop, please…” she begged, her words cracking into a desperate moan, each syllable echoing in the small space and rattling my already fragile composure.
Simran’s voice swelled, each syllable louder than the last: “Ohh... ohhh, yes, right there! Harder… oh God, harder!” The raw edge in her tone sent a jolt through me, making my heart hammer as I realized how completely she’d surrendered to his every thrust. I felt sorry for us.
Just as Simran’s wails faded for a moment, Ananya’s voice rose in a low, lingering
“Mmm… ohhh… yes, please… keep going…”
“Ohhh… ohhh… that’s it… so good…”
“God, that feels... ahhh… don’t stop… ahhh…”
The quiet urgency of her moans clashed with the frenetic rhythm from the other room, drilling into my consciousness like an intimate secret I was never meant to hear
Neeraj and my eyes met, momentarily sharing the misery and the twisted kinship of our situation. Neeraj, usually the composed one, looked unusually vulnerable. "It's hard... hearing her like that," he confessed in a whisper, barely audible over the faint sounds of satisfaction that underscored his words and heightened the sting of our predicament. I nodded, my throat constricted with emotion. "Yeah," I managed to reply, my eyes briefly dropping before snapping back up, trapped by the same uneasy curiosity that tormented us both.
Neeraj shifted beside me, his boxers doing little to hide the twitch of his erection. My own mind spiraled into conflicting arousal and shame—until a sudden, piercing cry from Ananya reached us: “AHHHHHH… YOU ARE SOOOO GOOOOD ASSIIFFFFFFF!” The words snapped me back to the stifling reality, each syllable a reminder that this was really happening.
The room felt claustrophobic, the air thick with the scent of our nervous sweat mixed with the lingering traces of our wives' perfumes. Neeraj shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting before he involuntarily reached to adjust his erection again. My eyes involuntarily tracked the movement, a hot flush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks as I realized where my gaze had landed.
Catching himself, Neeraj smiled sadly. "Sorry, I... I don’t know why I..." I interrupted him, my voice low, attempting to ease the tension. "It’s okay," I said, trying to sound reassuring, though the sounds from the bedrooms grew louder, the unmistakable rhythm of a bed creaking and moans barely contained, a constant reminder of our shared cuckold status.
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the soft creaking of a bed and the barely suppressed moans that seemed to echo directly into our cores. From Simran’s room came a breathy wail of “Nnnngh... oh, yes, yes!” followed by a series of rhythmic creaks. Across the hallway, Ananya’s urgent “Ahhhh... Asif...” overlapped, turning the entire house into one charged chorus of stolen pleasure.
I felt a strange camaraderie in our shared discomfort, a bond forged in the fire of our humiliation. Finally, Neeraj spoke again, his voice tinged with a mix of defeat and reluctant acceptance. "Do you ever think about it? What's it like for them... with those guys?" His question hung heavy in the air, laden with unspoken fears and dark fantasies.
My heart raced, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and forbidden images. "Sometimes," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "It’s hard not to wonder... to imagine..." Our glance shared in this moment of raw honesty was unspeakably intimate. Neeraj looked down, his voice barely audible as he added, "It’s messed up, isn’t it? That part of us that can’t stop thinking about it, even now."
The room seemed to shrink further, the air charged with the scent of our shame and the vivid sounds of our wives' pleasure. Neeraj, his hands now visibly trembling, adjusted himself again, his movements desperate and more pronounced. I watched, fixated as he succumbed to the humiliating arousal, his hand forming a tight fist around his growing erection, stroking slowly, almost as if in defeat
"I always thought mine was below average," Neeraj continued, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he pulled the waistband of his boxers slightly away from his skin, giving me a fleeting glimpse of his length. It was more an invitation than a confession, and I felt a tug of morbid curiosity within me.
I hesitated, my mouth suddenly dry, as the moans from the bedrooms grew louder—almost as if Simran and Ananya were competing in their pleasure. Neeraj’s question about “comparing” hung in the air, heavy with implications I wasn’t sure I could face.
“I... I haven’t really compared before,” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of our new, awkward reality. The rumble of our wives’ moans made it hard to concentrate, each cry rattling my nerves. Neeraj shifted again, his gaze sliding to my crotch. For a moment, we just stood there, avoiding eye contact, neither of us wanting to admit how much the situation excited or shamed us.
Finally, with a shaky exhale and a weak, apologetic smile, I let my curiosity win out. Slipping my thumbs into the waistband of my boxers, I gave Neeraj a quick glance, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. Slowly, I tugged them down just enough to show him. My cock—shorter, thinner—felt utterly inadequate under his scrutiny, and a wave of embarrassment washed over me.
A fleeting image of Ananya’s gentle smile intruded into my thoughts—her face soft with love and trust back before any of this was happening. That memory clashed with the reality of this humiliating size comparison. As if the recollection of her unwavering acceptance of me, flaws and all, was mocking me now. My throat tightened; I wondered how quickly that affection had faded once these bigger, bolder men with their monstrous cocks entered our lives.
Neeraj nodded slowly, his gaze analytical but not unkind. "We're built differently than them, huh?" he said, a hint of empathy in his tone that didn’t quite mask the edge of superiority. As he spoke, he began to slowly stroke himself, his hand moving with a confidence that seemed at odds with our awkward exchange.
The sounds of ecstasy from the next rooms intensified, punctuating our silent, humiliating comparison. Simran’s moans were high and keening, while Ananya's were deeper, more guttural—each one a visceral reminder of our inadequacies as husbands.
the quiver in her tone letting me know exactly how expertly he was working her. Despite her moans reverberating like waves through the hallway, I couldn’t tear my ears away from her raw, unfiltered desire.
Ananya’s moans, though quieter than Simran’s, had a deliberate persistence: “Mmm… ohh, yes… ohh, yes…” each repetition like a physical jolt to my chest. It was as though her every breath was meant for him alone, while I was left clinging to scraps of what used to be ours.
Ananya’s cries reached a fever pitch, coming out as breathless exclamations of “Oh… ohhhh my God!”,
“Don’t stop… ooh… don’t stop… please…”
“Mmm… so close… ooh… I’m so close…
Driven by a blend of envy and unwilling excitement, I wrapped my fingers around my own shaft and attempted to match Neeraj's rhythm. Each stroke ignited a guilty warmth deep in my belly—shame and pleasure colliding. I knew how wrong it was, how pathetic I looked, measuring myself against another cuckold while our wives moaned for others, but I couldn’t stop. My breaths came ragged, each exhale steeped in longing, revulsion, and a surprising jolt of raw lust.
Just as I gathered the courage to meet Neeraj’s eyes, Ananya let out a piercing “Yes, ohh yes …!” from the guest bedroom.
It sliced through my thoughts, making my heart stutter as I realized anew how far gone she was in another man’s pleasure.
"Seems like they’re really enjoying themselves," Neeraj remarked casually, his eyes half-closed, lost in the audio cues of our wives' pleasure. The statement, meant to be a mere observation, felt like a knife twisting in my gut.
I nodded, unable to form words, my focus narrowing to the sounds of Ananya's moans that I could now distinctly tell apart. Each cry that slipped from her lips was a stark contrast to the soft, wet sounds of my own desperate strokes. Neeraj, perhaps sensing my turmoil, glanced at me, his expression a complex tapestry of pity and camaraderie.
I couldn’t stop a tidal wave of memories from flooding my mind—the early days of our relationship, when Ananya’s shy smiles and tentative kisses were mine alone to provoke. I recalled the first time she moaned my name in bed, her body arching against mine in a moment so perfect I believed I was the only one who could ever bring her such pleasure. Now, hearing that same voice cry out for someone else, louder and more unabashed than I’d ever imagined, tore at my heart. Each echo of her ecstasy reminded me how far we’d drifted from those tender moments when I naively thought my touch was all she’d ever need.
Neeraj moved slightly closer, and the proximity of our bodies made the situation even more intense. His erection was undeniably larger, a stark contrast to my own, and it loomed impressively as if challenging the very air between us. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of apprehension and a strange, burgeoning excitement as his question hung in the air.
Neeraj took a half step closer, and suddenly the space between us felt uncomfortably intimate. I couldn’t help noticing how, even through his boxers, his erection clearly outmatched my own—and the realization sparked both dread and an odd spark of fascination in me. My heart beat faster with every breath, a chaotic mix of fear, curiosity, and reluctant arousal.
We stood there, silent for a moment, hearing the wet, rhythmic moans from the bedrooms escalating behind closed doors. Neeraj’s eyes flicked down, then back up to meet mine, a silent exchange that made my stomach twist in knots. I swallowed thickly, not sure if I was supposed to speak first or just give in to this absurd suggestion we both knew was coming.
“Do you... do you wanna... touch each other’s...?” Neeraj finally asked, voice low, nearly drowned out by a particularly loud moan from Ananya. The offer sounded so ludicrous that I almost laughed, but the ache in my pants reminded me this was no joke.
My hand shook as I raised it, hovering uselessly between us. I felt my pulse hammer in my ears, the air thick with the scent of sweat and stale perfume. It took another long second—another round of muffled cries from the bedrooms—before I moved closer, letting my fingers brush his shaft. The instant I made contact, my breath caught in my throat as I realized just how significant the difference was, in more ways than one.
Neeraj’s dick was warm, pulsing, and significantly thicker than mine. The skin was smooth, and as I wrapped my fingers around him, his girth filled my grasp satisfyingly, a stark reminder of my inadequacies.
He reciprocated, his hand enclosing around my shaft. The difference was immediate and painfully stark: my fingers could barely wrap around his girth, while his grasp on mine felt loose—almost as though he pitied me. I swallowed hard, my face flushing with the brutal reality of our mismatch.
For a second, we both froze in that awkward grip, a fleeting eye contact passing between us. My heart drummed wildly, torn between mortification and a twisted pull of curiosity. Neeraj cleared his throat, as if trying to muster some sense of control in this bizarre tableau. Only then did he begin moving his hand in a slow, measured stroke, silently prompting me to follow his lead.
"So, even cuckolds can have decent tools, huh?" I blurted out, my attempt at humor failing to hide my embarrassment. Neeraj gave a small, tense smile in response, and a wry look flickered across his features. I mimicked his pace, each motion a heavy reminder of what we had become, while Simran’s and Ananya’s moans continued to echo like a taunt from the next rooms.
The sounds of our wives' pleasure became a backdrop to our own forbidden exploration. Ananya’s deep, guttural moans punctuated by Simran's higher, keening cries created a symphony of arousal that was impossible to ignore. "They sound like they're having the time of their lives," I managed to say, my voice cracking with a cocktail of emotions.
"Yeah," Neeraj agreed, his breath hitching as he intensified his grip, "and here we are, playing with each other." His tone was half-mocking, half-commiserating, as if acknowledging the absurdity and the thrill of our situation simultaneously.
Hearing Ananya’s moans rise together with Simran’s sent a hollow pain through my chest, like each cry cut deeper into my pride. A heavy feeling of despair settled on me, weighing down my shoulders. Yet, some strange part of me felt a disturbing attraction, an odd excitement at the idea that she might be feeling pleasure beyond anything I had ever given her. My heart pounded with every sound, torn between the heartbreak of her betrayal and a dark, unshakable thrill I couldn’t explain.
We continued in strained silence, each slick stroke of our hands echoing the unbroken cries of pleasure from the bedrooms. The moans seemed to align with our movements, every desperate sound from our wives prompting another wave of shame and involuntary arousal. My breathing quickened, and I noticed Neeraj’s chest heaving as well, both of us trapped in this humiliating dance.
Slowly, he tilted his head, eyes flicking down at the disparity between our sizes, then back to my face. There was something in his gaze—hesitation, maybe a flicker of reluctance—that made my pulse thunder in my ears. For a moment, I thought he might say something reassuring or back away entirely. Instead, he gave a subtle nod toward me and spoke in a low, unsettling calm:
“Why don’t you get on your knees… and take a closer look ?”
His words were soft but carried a charged weight, an invitation and a command all at once. It sent a cold shiver through me, heightening every humiliating beat of my heart.
The words hit me like a jolt, and for a long moment I just stood there, pulse thudding in my ears. A wave of doubt hit me—was this truly happening? I glanced at the hallway again, where an especially high-pitched moan from Simran made my blood run cold, and I thought of Ananya’s deeper, breathier cries. Another wave of shame washed over me; how had we ended up here, me on the brink of kneeling before another man, while our wives moaned for someone else?
My chest felt tight, everything in me screaming to stop, to refuse—but the raw tension in Neeraj’s gaze, and the humiliating ache in my boxers, kept me locked in place. After what felt like an eternity, I let out a shuddering breath, my body betraying my instincts.
As Neeraj’s suggestion hung in the air, my heart pounded with that strange mix of dread and inexplicable arousal. His voice had a commanding edge that seemed to vibrate through the tense atmosphere. Hesitation gripped me... yet, something more powerful—an unspeakable curiosity or perhaps the desperate need to appease him—overrode that fear.
I found myself wondering if Neeraj was attempting to salvage some shred of his manhood by asserting dominance over me in this bizarre, humiliating context. It struck me as a desperate move, perhaps even a reflex, to regain a sense of control lost to the sounds and realities unfolding in the other rooms. This notion twisted in my gut, mixing with the raw, uncomfortable heat that his suggestion had ignited.
Reluctantly, I found myself nodding, the primal part of my brain overtaking my rational thoughts. I lowered myself, my knees hitting the soft carpet with a soft thud, bringing my face dangerously close to Neeraj’s cock. It hovered there, a stark symbol of my own inadequacy, pulsing gently with every beat of his heart.
Neeraj's cock, an average six inches in length but notably thicker than mine, presented an impressive sight. The girth was substantial, veined and firm. The skin was a deep, rich tone, smooth and taut over the rigid shaft, with a heavy, swollen head that glistened slightly at the tip from pre-cum. I thought I was average but that misconception was over now. As it throbbed in the dim light, each pulse seemed to mock my own lesser endowment, reinforcing the disparity between us and the humiliation of my position on my knees before him. Despite its formidable presence, it perhaps lacked the monstrous size of Anand’s or the intimidating length of Asif’s, making me wonder about the relativity of humiliation as I knelt there, caught between envy and degradation.
The scent of his musk was stronger now, mixed with the faint hint of the cologne he had worn earlier in the evening. The smell of his cock was clouding my senses. With a shaky breath, I reached out with both hands, my fingers trembling as they encircled his shaft. The skin was hot to the touch, velvety yet firm, and I could feel the throbbing veins under my fingertips.
My hands began to move, tentatively at first, then with more purpose as I found the rhythm that elicited soft groans from Neeraj. His hands found their way to my head, guiding me, encouraging me with gentle pressure. “Oh fuck yeah, that feels sooo good,” he moaned, his voice a husky whisper that seemed to resonate directly in my chest.
As Neeraj's hands pressed against the back of my head, a wave of conflicting emotions crashed over me. My mind raced—this was a boundary I had never crossed, nor thought I would. The sharp scent of his skin and the heat radiating from his body were overwhelming. Despite my inner turmoil, his insistent guidance left little room for refusal. With a mix of reluctance and a strange, compelling drive, I found myself yielding, opening my mouth to accommodate him. The decision was made more from the pressure of the moment than any desire on my part, and as I tentatively wrapped my lips around him, the reality of my actions hit me. The texture, the taste, the sheer act felt surreal, a stark departure from anything I'd ever known, imbued with a humiliation that was both intense and, oddly, disconnected from the rest of my life.
The taste of his pre-cum was salty, a stark reminder of what I was doing. I couldn’t believe I was on my knees, servicing another man’s cock—a fellow cuckold, no less, which somehow made the act feel even more degrading. The thought should have repelled me, but as Neeraj continued to belittle me, saying, “I can't believe you're actually sucking my dick,” something within me broke.
A particularly loud moan from Simran, laced with unmistakable ecstasy, resonated through the quiet, causing Neeraj's body to tense sharply. His grip on my head tightened momentarily, and I could feel his cock twitch in response, a sudden surge that increased the flow of precum I could taste. The bitter-sweetness of it was stark, a visceral reminder of the complex web of humiliation and reluctant arousal that bound us in this moment. The sound of Simran's voice, so full of pleasure and so distant from my current reality, deepened the sense of degradation that washed over me.
Gradually, almost without conscious decision, my tongue began to explore. It traced the prominent veins of Neeraj's shaft, moved over the smooth head, and dipped briefly into the slit at the tip, tasting the increasing bitterness of precum. Each tentative lick was a surrender to the unfolding reality, driven perhaps by a deep-seated need to assert some control over the situation or by the complex mix of emotions wrought by our shared humiliation and the overt sounds of pleasure from our partners. The act, once purely a response to Neeraj's urging, became something more involved, an action that, while still humiliating, was now marked by a bewildering sense of participation.
A nauseating swirl of feelings overwhelmed me—jealousy for the men satisfying our wives, strange sympathy for Neeraj caught in the same plight, despair over my own inadequacies, and an undeniable, reluctant arousal at the spectacle unfolding. It was a storm in my mind that I couldn’t outrun, a maddening cocktail of shame and lust that made my pulse pound in my ears like a drumbeat. Even as I felt every ounce of my dignity drain away, I couldn’t tear myself from the brutal fascination of this twisted dance.
From somewhere down the hallway, I heard Ananya’s moans suddenly rise to a desperate pitch, each frantic cry seeming to slice through my awareness like a blade. “Ohhh God… ohhh yes… I’m so close…” she gasped, her voice trembling with raw desire that I had never heard her direct at me. I couldn’t tell exactly what Asif was doing to her, but his low, rumbling encouragement was just as clear, punctuating her every breathy whimper. The stark contrast between her unrestrained pleasure and my own pitiful attempts to satisfy another man in the living room made my stomach twist with shame. A final, searing scream—“Ahhh… ohhh my Goddddd!”—ripped through the air, signaling her explosive release. The sound roared in my ears, fueling a toxic blend of jealousy, humiliation, and undeniable arousal that only tightened my mouth’s grip around Neeraj’s cock. I felt my own heart pound so violently I thought it might burst, each rhythmic throb a cruel echo of the ecstasy that was meant to be mine but had long slipped from my grasp.
My arousal spiked, a twisted mix of humiliation and desire. I was so lost in the degradation and the physical sensation—the slick sounds of my mouth working over him, the salty taste of his skin, the heady scent of our combined arousal—that I almost didn’t notice the bedroom door swing open.
Asif appeared, his presence like a shockwave, his massive 8.5-inch cock leading the way, stark and erect. The sight of it, even more imposing than Neeraj's, momentarily brought me back to reality. There I was—on my knees, hands and mouth full of another cuckold’s cock, completely exposed and at the bottom of this twisted hierarchy. The loud slap of Asif’s footsteps on the plush carpet snapped me out of my daze, his shadow looming over us like an ominous prelude to further humiliation.
"Oh!" Asif exclaimed as he caught sight of us. His tone was more amused than surprised. "Didn't mean to interrupt! Just wanted to check in on Anand and Simran before I start fucking your wife," he said, with a mocking grin that made my stomach churn.
“So all those sounds of Ananya were just from Asif going down on her? Damn, he must be good,” I thought to myself, feeling pathetic and utterly defeated. Despite the deep humiliation, I found myself rooted to the spot on my knees, unable to move or stand.
Asif knocked casually and entered the bedroom where Anand was vigorously pounding Simran. The sounds were unmistakable—loud, raw, and intense. A minute later, Anand emerged, his massive erection as thick and long as his forearm, glistening with a mix of sweat and Simran's arousal. He paused, noticing me still on my knees in front of Neeraj.
"Well, look at this," Anand chuckled, his voice dripping with disdain as he glanced at Asif. "Ketan’s really embracing the cuckold life, isn't he?" His laughter filled the room, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through my very core.
Asif joined in the mockery, "Yeah, and he seems pretty good at it, too. Must have been practicing, huh?" He turned to me, his gaze sharp and piercing. "Tell me, Ketan, how does it feel knowing I'm about to take over from where Anand left off last night? He told me she was quite the screamer with him. I bet I can make her scream louder. She must have already forgotten what it's like to be with your tinny Lulli."
The comments stung like salt in an open wound, but I couldn't find the words to respond. My humiliation was complete, and their laughter only deepened my shame. Asif threw one more barb, "Don't worry, I'll make sure she has another night to forget you by."
Instead of leaving right away, Asif and Anand paused in the dimly lit living room, as if they’d forgotten something. Completely naked, their cocks hung openly in the warm air—Asif’s still formidable at eight-and-a-half inches, and Anand’s matching the thick length of his forearm, both a stark reminder of why our wives were screaming with ecstasy.
From my position below, I couldn’t avoid noticing the casual way they carried themselves, as though their massive cocks were badges of superiority. A harsh contrast to my own inadequate state—my head near another cuckold’s average length while these real bulls loomed above us, unafraid and half-amused. Anand paused to pick up a water bottle, twisting the cap slowly as his huge cock bobbed in plain sight, revealing just how little regard he had for our embarrassment.
Asif and Anand shot each other cocky grins, their bare cocks still gleaming under the lamplight. Anand took a leisurely sip of water, then gave a dismissive nod toward the bedrooms. “You realize, by the time we’re done, your wives will be craving nothing but big cock,” he said with a sneer. “They’ll be size queens for life—won’t even look at your sorry junk anymore.”
“Yeah, guess we’re turning them into proper whores,” Asif chimed in, his laugh a low rumble. “Might as well face it, cucky. After all this, they’ll need something thicker, longer... they’ll never be satisfied by your ‘little guy’ again.”
Anand smirked, tipping the bottle to his lips while letting a bit of water spill down his chest, each swallow jostling his erection. “Speaking of real men,” he drawled, wiping his chin and casting a disgusted glance at the intimate display, “we’ve got better things to do. Come on, Asif. Let these cucks enjoy their own little show.”
As they disappeared back into the rooms, leaving the doors slightly ajar—whether by accident or cruel intention, I couldn't tell—Neeraj walked towards the door from which the sounds of Simran's pleasure emanated.
Asif’s last words—“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she has another night to forget you by”—throbbed in my mind like an open wound. For a few paralyzed seconds, I couldn’t breathe, the mocking ring of his voice looping in my ears. I pictured Ananya trembling in pleasure under him, moaning the way she never did for me. How many more nights would she forget me by the time all this was done?
A fresh wave of self-disgust nearly pinned me to the floor. If I walked away, would that save any shred of my dignity, or only confirm how powerless I really was? My pulse hammered with indecision, but the heat and raw musk in the living room gave me no real option. Swallowing back a mixture of rage and arousal, I finally shuffled forward, each step a surrender to the bizarre logic of our new reality.
A sudden thud from Simran’s bedroom caught my attention—wooden bedframe meeting the wall in a steady, rhythmic pattern. The sharp squeaks it produced seemed to sync with her higher-pitched cries, a visceral reminder of her body being taken. Simran’s voice rose in a long whimper, “Ohhh... oh God... ohhh!” followed by a desperate plea of “Don’t slow down... please!” Her cries seemed to hit a new pitch with every thrust, and each syllable cut through my already fraying nerves.
In contrast, Ananya’s more guttural moans from the opposite room pulsed through me like electric jolts, each one making me hyper-aware of every tiny sensation. Even the slight rustle of my boxers against my thighs felt magnified, the cotton fabric brushing my skin with each shift, underscoring how little we wore. Neeraj shifted next to me; I heard the faint rub of his waistband against his stomach and realized with an uncomfortable jolt that he was adjusting himself again, probably just as attuned to every creak, every gasp, every collision from the adjoining rooms as I was.
Simran’s voice broke into soft, breathy cries through the closed door that quickly escalated into sharp gasps.
“Ahhh… ohhhh, so good,” she whimpered, her tone climbing with each thrust.
“Please don’t stop, please…” she begged, her words cracking into a desperate moan, each syllable echoing in the small space and rattling my already fragile composure.
Simran’s voice swelled, each syllable louder than the last: “Ohh... ohhh, yes, right there! Harder… oh God, harder!” The raw edge in her tone sent a jolt through me, making my heart hammer as I realized how completely she’d surrendered to his every thrust. I felt sorry for us.
Just as Simran’s wails faded for a moment, Ananya’s voice rose in a low, lingering
“Mmm… ohhh… yes, please… keep going…”
“Ohhh… ohhh… that’s it… so good…”
“God, that feels... ahhh… don’t stop… ahhh…”
The quiet urgency of her moans clashed with the frenetic rhythm from the other room, drilling into my consciousness like an intimate secret I was never meant to hear
Neeraj and my eyes met, momentarily sharing the misery and the twisted kinship of our situation. Neeraj, usually the composed one, looked unusually vulnerable. "It's hard... hearing her like that," he confessed in a whisper, barely audible over the faint sounds of satisfaction that underscored his words and heightened the sting of our predicament. I nodded, my throat constricted with emotion. "Yeah," I managed to reply, my eyes briefly dropping before snapping back up, trapped by the same uneasy curiosity that tormented us both.
Neeraj shifted beside me, his boxers doing little to hide the twitch of his erection. My own mind spiraled into conflicting arousal and shame—until a sudden, piercing cry from Ananya reached us: “AHHHHHH… YOU ARE SOOOO GOOOOD ASSIIFFFFFFF!” The words snapped me back to the stifling reality, each syllable a reminder that this was really happening.
The room felt claustrophobic, the air thick with the scent of our nervous sweat mixed with the lingering traces of our wives' perfumes. Neeraj shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting before he involuntarily reached to adjust his erection again. My eyes involuntarily tracked the movement, a hot flush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks as I realized where my gaze had landed.
Catching himself, Neeraj smiled sadly. "Sorry, I... I don’t know why I..." I interrupted him, my voice low, attempting to ease the tension. "It’s okay," I said, trying to sound reassuring, though the sounds from the bedrooms grew louder, the unmistakable rhythm of a bed creaking and moans barely contained, a constant reminder of our shared cuckold status.
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the soft creaking of a bed and the barely suppressed moans that seemed to echo directly into our cores. From Simran’s room came a breathy wail of “Nnnngh... oh, yes, yes!” followed by a series of rhythmic creaks. Across the hallway, Ananya’s urgent “Ahhhh... Asif...” overlapped, turning the entire house into one charged chorus of stolen pleasure.
I felt a strange camaraderie in our shared discomfort, a bond forged in the fire of our humiliation. Finally, Neeraj spoke again, his voice tinged with a mix of defeat and reluctant acceptance. "Do you ever think about it? What's it like for them... with those guys?" His question hung heavy in the air, laden with unspoken fears and dark fantasies.
My heart raced, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and forbidden images. "Sometimes," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "It’s hard not to wonder... to imagine..." Our glance shared in this moment of raw honesty was unspeakably intimate. Neeraj looked down, his voice barely audible as he added, "It’s messed up, isn’t it? That part of us that can’t stop thinking about it, even now."
The room seemed to shrink further, the air charged with the scent of our shame and the vivid sounds of our wives' pleasure. Neeraj, his hands now visibly trembling, adjusted himself again, his movements desperate and more pronounced. I watched, fixated as he succumbed to the humiliating arousal, his hand forming a tight fist around his growing erection, stroking slowly, almost as if in defeat
"I always thought mine was below average," Neeraj continued, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he pulled the waistband of his boxers slightly away from his skin, giving me a fleeting glimpse of his length. It was more an invitation than a confession, and I felt a tug of morbid curiosity within me.
I hesitated, my mouth suddenly dry, as the moans from the bedrooms grew louder—almost as if Simran and Ananya were competing in their pleasure. Neeraj’s question about “comparing” hung in the air, heavy with implications I wasn’t sure I could face.
“I... I haven’t really compared before,” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of our new, awkward reality. The rumble of our wives’ moans made it hard to concentrate, each cry rattling my nerves. Neeraj shifted again, his gaze sliding to my crotch. For a moment, we just stood there, avoiding eye contact, neither of us wanting to admit how much the situation excited or shamed us.
Finally, with a shaky exhale and a weak, apologetic smile, I let my curiosity win out. Slipping my thumbs into the waistband of my boxers, I gave Neeraj a quick glance, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. Slowly, I tugged them down just enough to show him. My cock—shorter, thinner—felt utterly inadequate under his scrutiny, and a wave of embarrassment washed over me.
A fleeting image of Ananya’s gentle smile intruded into my thoughts—her face soft with love and trust back before any of this was happening. That memory clashed with the reality of this humiliating size comparison. As if the recollection of her unwavering acceptance of me, flaws and all, was mocking me now. My throat tightened; I wondered how quickly that affection had faded once these bigger, bolder men with their monstrous cocks entered our lives.
Neeraj nodded slowly, his gaze analytical but not unkind. "We're built differently than them, huh?" he said, a hint of empathy in his tone that didn’t quite mask the edge of superiority. As he spoke, he began to slowly stroke himself, his hand moving with a confidence that seemed at odds with our awkward exchange.
The sounds of ecstasy from the next rooms intensified, punctuating our silent, humiliating comparison. Simran’s moans were high and keening, while Ananya's were deeper, more guttural—each one a visceral reminder of our inadequacies as husbands.
the quiver in her tone letting me know exactly how expertly he was working her. Despite her moans reverberating like waves through the hallway, I couldn’t tear my ears away from her raw, unfiltered desire.
Ananya’s moans, though quieter than Simran’s, had a deliberate persistence: “Mmm… ohh, yes… ohh, yes…” each repetition like a physical jolt to my chest. It was as though her every breath was meant for him alone, while I was left clinging to scraps of what used to be ours.
Ananya’s cries reached a fever pitch, coming out as breathless exclamations of “Oh… ohhhh my God!”,
“Don’t stop… ooh… don’t stop… please…”
“Mmm… so close… ooh… I’m so close…
Driven by a blend of envy and unwilling excitement, I wrapped my fingers around my own shaft and attempted to match Neeraj's rhythm. Each stroke ignited a guilty warmth deep in my belly—shame and pleasure colliding. I knew how wrong it was, how pathetic I looked, measuring myself against another cuckold while our wives moaned for others, but I couldn’t stop. My breaths came ragged, each exhale steeped in longing, revulsion, and a surprising jolt of raw lust.
Just as I gathered the courage to meet Neeraj’s eyes, Ananya let out a piercing “Yes, ohh yes …!” from the guest bedroom.
It sliced through my thoughts, making my heart stutter as I realized anew how far gone she was in another man’s pleasure.
"Seems like they’re really enjoying themselves," Neeraj remarked casually, his eyes half-closed, lost in the audio cues of our wives' pleasure. The statement, meant to be a mere observation, felt like a knife twisting in my gut.
I nodded, unable to form words, my focus narrowing to the sounds of Ananya's moans that I could now distinctly tell apart. Each cry that slipped from her lips was a stark contrast to the soft, wet sounds of my own desperate strokes. Neeraj, perhaps sensing my turmoil, glanced at me, his expression a complex tapestry of pity and camaraderie.
I couldn’t stop a tidal wave of memories from flooding my mind—the early days of our relationship, when Ananya’s shy smiles and tentative kisses were mine alone to provoke. I recalled the first time she moaned my name in bed, her body arching against mine in a moment so perfect I believed I was the only one who could ever bring her such pleasure. Now, hearing that same voice cry out for someone else, louder and more unabashed than I’d ever imagined, tore at my heart. Each echo of her ecstasy reminded me how far we’d drifted from those tender moments when I naively thought my touch was all she’d ever need.
Neeraj moved slightly closer, and the proximity of our bodies made the situation even more intense. His erection was undeniably larger, a stark contrast to my own, and it loomed impressively as if challenging the very air between us. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of apprehension and a strange, burgeoning excitement as his question hung in the air.
Neeraj took a half step closer, and suddenly the space between us felt uncomfortably intimate. I couldn’t help noticing how, even through his boxers, his erection clearly outmatched my own—and the realization sparked both dread and an odd spark of fascination in me. My heart beat faster with every breath, a chaotic mix of fear, curiosity, and reluctant arousal.
We stood there, silent for a moment, hearing the wet, rhythmic moans from the bedrooms escalating behind closed doors. Neeraj’s eyes flicked down, then back up to meet mine, a silent exchange that made my stomach twist in knots. I swallowed thickly, not sure if I was supposed to speak first or just give in to this absurd suggestion we both knew was coming.
“Do you... do you wanna... touch each other’s...?” Neeraj finally asked, voice low, nearly drowned out by a particularly loud moan from Ananya. The offer sounded so ludicrous that I almost laughed, but the ache in my pants reminded me this was no joke.
My hand shook as I raised it, hovering uselessly between us. I felt my pulse hammer in my ears, the air thick with the scent of sweat and stale perfume. It took another long second—another round of muffled cries from the bedrooms—before I moved closer, letting my fingers brush his shaft. The instant I made contact, my breath caught in my throat as I realized just how significant the difference was, in more ways than one.
Neeraj’s dick was warm, pulsing, and significantly thicker than mine. The skin was smooth, and as I wrapped my fingers around him, his girth filled my grasp satisfyingly, a stark reminder of my inadequacies.
He reciprocated, his hand enclosing around my shaft. The difference was immediate and painfully stark: my fingers could barely wrap around his girth, while his grasp on mine felt loose—almost as though he pitied me. I swallowed hard, my face flushing with the brutal reality of our mismatch.
For a second, we both froze in that awkward grip, a fleeting eye contact passing between us. My heart drummed wildly, torn between mortification and a twisted pull of curiosity. Neeraj cleared his throat, as if trying to muster some sense of control in this bizarre tableau. Only then did he begin moving his hand in a slow, measured stroke, silently prompting me to follow his lead.
"So, even cuckolds can have decent tools, huh?" I blurted out, my attempt at humor failing to hide my embarrassment. Neeraj gave a small, tense smile in response, and a wry look flickered across his features. I mimicked his pace, each motion a heavy reminder of what we had become, while Simran’s and Ananya’s moans continued to echo like a taunt from the next rooms.
The sounds of our wives' pleasure became a backdrop to our own forbidden exploration. Ananya’s deep, guttural moans punctuated by Simran's higher, keening cries created a symphony of arousal that was impossible to ignore. "They sound like they're having the time of their lives," I managed to say, my voice cracking with a cocktail of emotions.
"Yeah," Neeraj agreed, his breath hitching as he intensified his grip, "and here we are, playing with each other." His tone was half-mocking, half-commiserating, as if acknowledging the absurdity and the thrill of our situation simultaneously.
Hearing Ananya’s moans rise together with Simran’s sent a hollow pain through my chest, like each cry cut deeper into my pride. A heavy feeling of despair settled on me, weighing down my shoulders. Yet, some strange part of me felt a disturbing attraction, an odd excitement at the idea that she might be feeling pleasure beyond anything I had ever given her. My heart pounded with every sound, torn between the heartbreak of her betrayal and a dark, unshakable thrill I couldn’t explain.
We continued in strained silence, each slick stroke of our hands echoing the unbroken cries of pleasure from the bedrooms. The moans seemed to align with our movements, every desperate sound from our wives prompting another wave of shame and involuntary arousal. My breathing quickened, and I noticed Neeraj’s chest heaving as well, both of us trapped in this humiliating dance.
Slowly, he tilted his head, eyes flicking down at the disparity between our sizes, then back to my face. There was something in his gaze—hesitation, maybe a flicker of reluctance—that made my pulse thunder in my ears. For a moment, I thought he might say something reassuring or back away entirely. Instead, he gave a subtle nod toward me and spoke in a low, unsettling calm:
“Why don’t you get on your knees… and take a closer look ?”
His words were soft but carried a charged weight, an invitation and a command all at once. It sent a cold shiver through me, heightening every humiliating beat of my heart.
The words hit me like a jolt, and for a long moment I just stood there, pulse thudding in my ears. A wave of doubt hit me—was this truly happening? I glanced at the hallway again, where an especially high-pitched moan from Simran made my blood run cold, and I thought of Ananya’s deeper, breathier cries. Another wave of shame washed over me; how had we ended up here, me on the brink of kneeling before another man, while our wives moaned for someone else?
My chest felt tight, everything in me screaming to stop, to refuse—but the raw tension in Neeraj’s gaze, and the humiliating ache in my boxers, kept me locked in place. After what felt like an eternity, I let out a shuddering breath, my body betraying my instincts.
As Neeraj’s suggestion hung in the air, my heart pounded with that strange mix of dread and inexplicable arousal. His voice had a commanding edge that seemed to vibrate through the tense atmosphere. Hesitation gripped me... yet, something more powerful—an unspeakable curiosity or perhaps the desperate need to appease him—overrode that fear.
I found myself wondering if Neeraj was attempting to salvage some shred of his manhood by asserting dominance over me in this bizarre, humiliating context. It struck me as a desperate move, perhaps even a reflex, to regain a sense of control lost to the sounds and realities unfolding in the other rooms. This notion twisted in my gut, mixing with the raw, uncomfortable heat that his suggestion had ignited.
Reluctantly, I found myself nodding, the primal part of my brain overtaking my rational thoughts. I lowered myself, my knees hitting the soft carpet with a soft thud, bringing my face dangerously close to Neeraj’s cock. It hovered there, a stark symbol of my own inadequacy, pulsing gently with every beat of his heart.
Neeraj's cock, an average six inches in length but notably thicker than mine, presented an impressive sight. The girth was substantial, veined and firm. The skin was a deep, rich tone, smooth and taut over the rigid shaft, with a heavy, swollen head that glistened slightly at the tip from pre-cum. I thought I was average but that misconception was over now. As it throbbed in the dim light, each pulse seemed to mock my own lesser endowment, reinforcing the disparity between us and the humiliation of my position on my knees before him. Despite its formidable presence, it perhaps lacked the monstrous size of Anand’s or the intimidating length of Asif’s, making me wonder about the relativity of humiliation as I knelt there, caught between envy and degradation.
The scent of his musk was stronger now, mixed with the faint hint of the cologne he had worn earlier in the evening. The smell of his cock was clouding my senses. With a shaky breath, I reached out with both hands, my fingers trembling as they encircled his shaft. The skin was hot to the touch, velvety yet firm, and I could feel the throbbing veins under my fingertips.
My hands began to move, tentatively at first, then with more purpose as I found the rhythm that elicited soft groans from Neeraj. His hands found their way to my head, guiding me, encouraging me with gentle pressure. “Oh fuck yeah, that feels sooo good,” he moaned, his voice a husky whisper that seemed to resonate directly in my chest.
As Neeraj's hands pressed against the back of my head, a wave of conflicting emotions crashed over me. My mind raced—this was a boundary I had never crossed, nor thought I would. The sharp scent of his skin and the heat radiating from his body were overwhelming. Despite my inner turmoil, his insistent guidance left little room for refusal. With a mix of reluctance and a strange, compelling drive, I found myself yielding, opening my mouth to accommodate him. The decision was made more from the pressure of the moment than any desire on my part, and as I tentatively wrapped my lips around him, the reality of my actions hit me. The texture, the taste, the sheer act felt surreal, a stark departure from anything I'd ever known, imbued with a humiliation that was both intense and, oddly, disconnected from the rest of my life.
The taste of his pre-cum was salty, a stark reminder of what I was doing. I couldn’t believe I was on my knees, servicing another man’s cock—a fellow cuckold, no less, which somehow made the act feel even more degrading. The thought should have repelled me, but as Neeraj continued to belittle me, saying, “I can't believe you're actually sucking my dick,” something within me broke.
A particularly loud moan from Simran, laced with unmistakable ecstasy, resonated through the quiet, causing Neeraj's body to tense sharply. His grip on my head tightened momentarily, and I could feel his cock twitch in response, a sudden surge that increased the flow of precum I could taste. The bitter-sweetness of it was stark, a visceral reminder of the complex web of humiliation and reluctant arousal that bound us in this moment. The sound of Simran's voice, so full of pleasure and so distant from my current reality, deepened the sense of degradation that washed over me.
Gradually, almost without conscious decision, my tongue began to explore. It traced the prominent veins of Neeraj's shaft, moved over the smooth head, and dipped briefly into the slit at the tip, tasting the increasing bitterness of precum. Each tentative lick was a surrender to the unfolding reality, driven perhaps by a deep-seated need to assert some control over the situation or by the complex mix of emotions wrought by our shared humiliation and the overt sounds of pleasure from our partners. The act, once purely a response to Neeraj's urging, became something more involved, an action that, while still humiliating, was now marked by a bewildering sense of participation.
A nauseating swirl of feelings overwhelmed me—jealousy for the men satisfying our wives, strange sympathy for Neeraj caught in the same plight, despair over my own inadequacies, and an undeniable, reluctant arousal at the spectacle unfolding. It was a storm in my mind that I couldn’t outrun, a maddening cocktail of shame and lust that made my pulse pound in my ears like a drumbeat. Even as I felt every ounce of my dignity drain away, I couldn’t tear myself from the brutal fascination of this twisted dance.
From somewhere down the hallway, I heard Ananya’s moans suddenly rise to a desperate pitch, each frantic cry seeming to slice through my awareness like a blade. “Ohhh God… ohhh yes… I’m so close…” she gasped, her voice trembling with raw desire that I had never heard her direct at me. I couldn’t tell exactly what Asif was doing to her, but his low, rumbling encouragement was just as clear, punctuating her every breathy whimper. The stark contrast between her unrestrained pleasure and my own pitiful attempts to satisfy another man in the living room made my stomach twist with shame. A final, searing scream—“Ahhh… ohhh my Goddddd!”—ripped through the air, signaling her explosive release. The sound roared in my ears, fueling a toxic blend of jealousy, humiliation, and undeniable arousal that only tightened my mouth’s grip around Neeraj’s cock. I felt my own heart pound so violently I thought it might burst, each rhythmic throb a cruel echo of the ecstasy that was meant to be mine but had long slipped from my grasp.
My arousal spiked, a twisted mix of humiliation and desire. I was so lost in the degradation and the physical sensation—the slick sounds of my mouth working over him, the salty taste of his skin, the heady scent of our combined arousal—that I almost didn’t notice the bedroom door swing open.
Asif appeared, his presence like a shockwave, his massive 8.5-inch cock leading the way, stark and erect. The sight of it, even more imposing than Neeraj's, momentarily brought me back to reality. There I was—on my knees, hands and mouth full of another cuckold’s cock, completely exposed and at the bottom of this twisted hierarchy. The loud slap of Asif’s footsteps on the plush carpet snapped me out of my daze, his shadow looming over us like an ominous prelude to further humiliation.
"Oh!" Asif exclaimed as he caught sight of us. His tone was more amused than surprised. "Didn't mean to interrupt! Just wanted to check in on Anand and Simran before I start fucking your wife," he said, with a mocking grin that made my stomach churn.
“So all those sounds of Ananya were just from Asif going down on her? Damn, he must be good,” I thought to myself, feeling pathetic and utterly defeated. Despite the deep humiliation, I found myself rooted to the spot on my knees, unable to move or stand.
Asif knocked casually and entered the bedroom where Anand was vigorously pounding Simran. The sounds were unmistakable—loud, raw, and intense. A minute later, Anand emerged, his massive erection as thick and long as his forearm, glistening with a mix of sweat and Simran's arousal. He paused, noticing me still on my knees in front of Neeraj.
"Well, look at this," Anand chuckled, his voice dripping with disdain as he glanced at Asif. "Ketan’s really embracing the cuckold life, isn't he?" His laughter filled the room, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through my very core.
Asif joined in the mockery, "Yeah, and he seems pretty good at it, too. Must have been practicing, huh?" He turned to me, his gaze sharp and piercing. "Tell me, Ketan, how does it feel knowing I'm about to take over from where Anand left off last night? He told me she was quite the screamer with him. I bet I can make her scream louder. She must have already forgotten what it's like to be with your tinny Lulli."
The comments stung like salt in an open wound, but I couldn't find the words to respond. My humiliation was complete, and their laughter only deepened my shame. Asif threw one more barb, "Don't worry, I'll make sure she has another night to forget you by."
Instead of leaving right away, Asif and Anand paused in the dimly lit living room, as if they’d forgotten something. Completely naked, their cocks hung openly in the warm air—Asif’s still formidable at eight-and-a-half inches, and Anand’s matching the thick length of his forearm, both a stark reminder of why our wives were screaming with ecstasy.
From my position below, I couldn’t avoid noticing the casual way they carried themselves, as though their massive cocks were badges of superiority. A harsh contrast to my own inadequate state—my head near another cuckold’s average length while these real bulls loomed above us, unafraid and half-amused. Anand paused to pick up a water bottle, twisting the cap slowly as his huge cock bobbed in plain sight, revealing just how little regard he had for our embarrassment.
Asif and Anand shot each other cocky grins, their bare cocks still gleaming under the lamplight. Anand took a leisurely sip of water, then gave a dismissive nod toward the bedrooms. “You realize, by the time we’re done, your wives will be craving nothing but big cock,” he said with a sneer. “They’ll be size queens for life—won’t even look at your sorry junk anymore.”
“Yeah, guess we’re turning them into proper whores,” Asif chimed in, his laugh a low rumble. “Might as well face it, cucky. After all this, they’ll need something thicker, longer... they’ll never be satisfied by your ‘little guy’ again.”
Anand smirked, tipping the bottle to his lips while letting a bit of water spill down his chest, each swallow jostling his erection. “Speaking of real men,” he drawled, wiping his chin and casting a disgusted glance at the intimate display, “we’ve got better things to do. Come on, Asif. Let these cucks enjoy their own little show.”
As they disappeared back into the rooms, leaving the doors slightly ajar—whether by accident or cruel intention, I couldn't tell—Neeraj walked towards the door from which the sounds of Simran's pleasure emanated.
Asif’s last words—“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she has another night to forget you by”—throbbed in my mind like an open wound. For a few paralyzed seconds, I couldn’t breathe, the mocking ring of his voice looping in my ears. I pictured Ananya trembling in pleasure under him, moaning the way she never did for me. How many more nights would she forget me by the time all this was done?
A fresh wave of self-disgust nearly pinned me to the floor. If I walked away, would that save any shred of my dignity, or only confirm how powerless I really was? My pulse hammered with indecision, but the heat and raw musk in the living room gave me no real option. Swallowing back a mixture of rage and arousal, I finally shuffled forward, each step a surrender to the bizarre logic of our new reality.
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