Adultery Wife helps me become a cuckold

[incest_cuck]

As I watched the aftermath unfold on my phone screen, the wave of arousal that had consumed me began to ebb. My wife's face, previously flushed with pleasure, now contorted with anger. Her lips moved rapidly, clearly berating the brutish plumber as his smug grin faded, replaced by a look of surprise and then concern. Aradhya's hands gestured wildly, while her body language radiated fury. She pointed at the tattered condom, then at her thigh where his seed still glistened. Harpreet's massive shoulders slumped as he seems to realize the gravity of the situation. He reached out, presumably trying to calm her, but Aradhya jerked away from his touch.

I leaned closer to the screen, my heart pounding. This wasn't how I imagined things would go. The thrill of watching my wife with another man was rapidly being replaced by a growing sense of unease.  Harpreet's lips moved, likely forming apologies, but my wife wasn't having it. She shook her head vehemently, tears starting to form in her eyes. The sight of her distress sent a pang through my chest. What had I done?

As I watched, transfixed, Aradhya's anger seemed to crumble, giving way to despair. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her face buried in her hands. The low-class plumber, looking lost, tried to comfort her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off violently. The plumber's face hardened instantly, his earlier contrition replaced by frustration. He gestured sharply, his muscular frame tensing. Was he trying to defend himself? Blame my wife? The silent video left me guessing, my imagination filling in the blanks with increasingly distressing scenarios.

Aradhya's head snapped up, her tear-streaked face a mask of disbelief and hurt. She scrambled off the bed, putting distance between herself and the big brute. Her arms wrapped around her naked body, as if trying to shield herself from his words or gaze. Harpreet stood too, his imposing figure looming over my petite wife. For a moment, fear gripped me. But he didn't move towards her. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, his expression a mix of exasperation and regret.

As I watched this silent drama unfold, I became aware of the mess I'd made in the bathroom stall. Reluctantly, I tore my eyes away from the screen to clean myself up. My hands shook as I wiped away the evidence of my arousal, shame and guilt replacing the earlier excitement. When I looked back at my phone, Aradhya was gesturing towards the door, her meaning clear even without sound. Harpreet nodded, with his shoulders sagging in defeat. He began to dress, his movements slow and deliberate.

My wife remained huddled in the corner, her eyes never leaving the tall blue-collar ruffian as he put on his clothes. The tears had stopped, but her face is a mask of misery. What was I thinking, encouraging this? The weight of my role in this disaster settled heavily on my shoulders.

Once dressed, Harpreet made one last attempt to approach my wife. But she flinched away, her hand coming up in a clear 'stop' gesture. He paused, then nodded, turning towards the door. As he left the bedroom, Aradhya collapsed onto the floor, her body wracked with fresh sobs.

I switched to the living room camera, watching as Harpreet gathered his tools. His movements were unhurried, almost casual, as if he hadn't just potentially altered the course of our lives. He glanced toward the bedroom once, his expression unreadable, before heading out the front door. As the door closed behind him, the reality of the situation hit me full force. My wife was alone, devastated, dealing with the aftermath of a fantasy gone wrong. And I was away, watching helplessly through a screen. The wave of arousal that had consumed me earlier was completely gone, replaced by a nauseating mix of guilt and concern. I needed to get home. ASAP!

With trembling hands, I unlocked the stall door and stumbled out. My reflection in the bathroom mirror showed a pale, sweaty face, eyes wide with panic. I splashed some water on my face, trying to compose myself. Back at my desk, I hastily packed up my things, ignoring the curious glances from my coworkers. I mumbled something about feeling sick to my boss, barely waiting for his nod before I headed out the door. The taxi ride home was interminable. Every red light, every slow driver in front of us sent a spike of frustration through me. I kept checking my phone, but Aradhya hadn't moved from her spot on the bedroom floor. Her sobs seemed to have subsided, but she looked utterly broken.

As we finally pulled up to our house, I threw some cash at the driver and rushed out. My hands shook so badly I could barely get the key in the lock. When I finally stumbled inside, the house was eerily quiet. I made my way to the bedroom, my heart pounding. My wife was exactly where I last saw her on the camera feed, curled up on the floor. She didn't look up as I entered, didn't acknowledge my presence at all.

"Aradhya?", I called out to her softly, kneeling beside her. "Honey, I'm here."

She flinched at the sound of my voice, curling in on herself even more. The rejection stung, but I know I deserved it. This was my fault. "I'm so sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking. "This is all my fault. I should never have suggested this. I should never have pushed for it."

Aradhya finally looked up at me, her eyes red and puffy from crying. The pain and betrayal I saw there broke my heart.

"Why?", she croaked, her voice hoarse. "Why did you want this? Why did I agree to it?"

I reached out to touch her, but stopped myself, unsure if my touch would be welcome. "I thought... I thought it would be exciting. I never meant for it to go this far. I never wanted you to get hurt."

Aradhya sat up slowly, wrapping her arms around her knees. "But I did get hurt, Ari. We both did. This... this wasn't just some fun game. This was our marriage, our trust, our... our future."

Her words hit me like a physical blow. She was right, of course. In my pursuit of a selfish fantasy, I'd risked everything we'd built together. "I know…", I said, hanging my head. "I know, and I'm so, so sorry. I love you, Aradhya. More than anything. If I could take it all back, I would."

Aradhya was quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on some point in the distance. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I wanted it too, you know. I thought it would bring us closer, make our sex life more exciting. But now... now I just feel dirty. Used."

I felt tears pricking at my eyes. "You're not dirty, Aradhya. You're beautiful, and strong, and I love you more than ever. What happened... it was a mistake. But it doesn't change how I feel about you."

She looked at me then, really looked at me. "How can you say that? After watching another man... after he..."

"Because it's true.", I said firmly. "Yes, I watched. And yes, for a while, I was turned on. But when I saw how upset you were, when I realized what had happened... Aradhya, all I wanted was to be here with you, to hold you and tell you it's going to be okay."

Aradhya's lower lip trembled, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "But what if it's not okay? What if... what if I'm pregnant? What if he gave me something? What if this ruins us?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "Then we'll deal with it. Together. Whatever happens, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, my wife just stared at me. Then, slowly, she uncurled herself and leaned toward me. I opened my arms, and she collapsed against my chest, her body shaking with renewed sobs. I held her close, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense. My own tears fell silently, mingling with hers. We stayed like that for what felt like hours, clinging to each other as if we were the only solid things in a world gone mad.

Eventually, Aradhya's sobs subsided. She pulled back slightly, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. "What do we do now?", she asked, her voice small and uncertain.

I cupped her face gently, wiping away a stray tear with my thumb. "First, we get you cleaned up and into some comfortable clothes."

Aradhya nodded, a flicker of relief passing over her face. "Okay.", she whispered. "And... and then?"

"Then we talk.", I said firmly. "Really talk. About what happened, about why we thought we wanted this, about where we go from here. No more secrets, no more unspoken fantasies. Just us, being honest with each other."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "That sounds... good."

I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "We're going to be okay, Aradhya. I promise. It might take time, and it might be hard, but we'll get through this. Together."

As I helped my wife to her feet, guiding her gently towards the bathroom, I was acutely aware of how close we came to losing everything. The excitement of the fantasy seemed hollow now, a pale imitation of the deep, abiding love I felt for my wife.

---

The days following the incident with Harpreet blurred together in a haze of anxiety and regret. Each morning, I woke up next to Aradhya, my heart heavy with the weight of what we had been through. We spent the first few days in a flurry of doctor's appointments and tests. The wait for results was excruciating, each passing hour filled with worst-case scenarios played out in my mind. When the STD tests finally come back clean, I feel a momentary rush of relief. It was short-lived, though, as we still had to wait for the pregnancy test.

When the pregnancy test came back negative, we both let out breaths we didn't realize we were holding. "I'm glad.", she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think I could have... if it had been..." She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t need to. I knew what she meant. The thought of her carrying that low-class plumber's child, a constant reminder of our mistake, would’ve been too much to bear.

"Me too.", I replied, reaching out to take her hand. She let me, but her fingers remain limp in mine. "Aradhya, I-"

"Not now, Ari.", she cut me off, pulling her hand away. "I just... I need some time."

I nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. "Of course. Whatever you need."

As the days turned into weeks, we settled into a new routine. Aradhya insisted that I work from home, her fear of our landlord showing up uninvited palpable. I didn't argue. How could I, when I was the one who encouraged her to entertain his advances in the first place?

Speaking of Mr. Banerjee, he didn’t give up easily. His calls came daily at first, then every other day. Each time the phone rang, Aradhya flinched, her body tensing as if preparing for a blow. I watched as she let each call go to voicemail, her finger hovering over the delete button before she even listened to the message. One day, as I was making us lunch, I overheard her listening to one of his messages. His voice, tinny through the phone's speaker, filled the room.

"Aradhya, my dear.", he said, his tone a mix of concern and something darker, more predatory. "I haven't heard from you in weeks. Is everything alright? I miss our... chats. Perhaps I could stop by for a cup of tea? For old times' sake?"

I watched as my wife's face contorted, a mix of emotions flashing across her dusky features. Disgust, longing, shame - they all warred for dominance before settling into a mask of resignation. She deleted the message without responding, but I couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking. As for me, I found myself increasingly drawn to my computer in my free time. While Aradhya busied herself with household tasks, remote work or lost herself in mindless television shows, I scoured the internet for cuckolding stories. Each tale of wives straying, of husbands watching, sent a thrill through me that I immediately hate myself for feeling.

I would tell myself it's just fantasy, that I wasn’t actually going to act on these desires again. But deep down, I knew I was lying to myself. The truth was, I missed it. I missed the thrill of hearing about my wife’s encounters, the excitement of watching her with other men. The shame of this realization was almost overwhelming. One night, as I was reading a particularly vivid story about a wife's affair with her personal trainer, I heard Aradhya approaching. I quickly closed the browser, my heart pounding. She entered the room, her eyes questioning.

"What are you doing?", she asked, her tone neutral but her body language wary.

"Just... checking emails.", I lie, hating myself for the deception. "Work stuff."

She nodded, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. The distance between us, already vast, seemed to grow even wider.

In bed, things were no better. Our love life, once passionate and frequent, had dwindled to almost nothing. On the rare occasions when we did make love, it was a shadow of what it once was. My excitement at being with Aradhya again after everything that'd happened invariably led to my old problem - premature ejaculation. The first time it happened after the incident with Harpreet, she tried to be understanding. "It's okay.", she whispered, stroking my hair as I laid beside her, burning with shame. "We're both under a lot of stress."

But as it continued to happen, I saw the disappointment in her eyes, the way she turned away from me afterward. I couldn't help but compare myself to Harpreet, to Mr. Banerjee. Did they satisfy her in ways I never could? The thought was both arousing and devastating. One night, after another disappointing encounter, I caught my wife staring at her phone. She quickly put it down when she noticed me watching, but not before I caught a glimpse of a familiar name on the screen. The low-class plumber – Harpreet!

"Has he been texting you?", I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Aradhya sighed, running a hand through her hair. "He's been trying to apologize.", she admitted. "Says he feels terrible about what happened."

I felt a surge of emotions - jealousy, anger, and to my shame, a flicker of excitement. "What are you going to do?"

She looked at me then, really looked at me, for what felt like the first time in days. "I don't know, Ari. What do you want me to do?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. What do I want? The answer was complicated, twisted up in desires I was ashamed to admit even to myself.

"I... I don't know.", I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Aradhya nodded, her expression unreadable. "Neither do I."

As the days turned into weeks, we settled into an uneasy routine. On the surface, we’d go through the motions of our life together. We ate meals, watched TV, slept in the same bed. But underneath, there was a current of unresolved tension, of words left unsaid. I caught her sometimes, staring off into space with a faraway look in her eyes. Was she thinking about Harpreet? About Mr. Banerjee? About the excitement and danger of those encounters? Or was she, like me, wondering how we got there and how we could find our way back?

However, on a typical Tuesday afternoon, my world shifted on its axis once again. I was working from home, as had become our new normal, when I heard the jangle of keys at the front door. My wife was back from her grocery run, I think. I pushed away from my laptop to greet her. As I rounded the corner into our small entryway, I froze. Aradhya wasn't alone. She was laughing, her cheeks flushed with a warmth I hadn't seen in weeks, and beside her stood a man I'd never seen before. He was tall – towering over both Aradhya and me – with a neatly trimmed beard and the kind of easy confidence that radiated from every pore.