Wicked Whispers

[rinxox]

P

Sheeza, his wife, stood beside her—a picture of modesty in her long salwar suit. The pastel fabric dbangd gracefully over her curves, her dupatta pinned carefully to her shoulder. Her fair, radiant skin glowed softly, framed by her thick, dark hair. Her face was angelic, almost serene, a stark contrast to the wickedness he had just overheard.  

Noor, on the other hand, wore tight jeans that hugged her shapely legs and a fitted top that revealed a hint of her waist whenever she moved. She carried herself with a confidence that bordered on provocation, while Sheeza's demeanor was softer, gentler—a blend of tradition and grace.  

"Oh, Ali! You're back early!"Sheeza greeted him with a gentle smile, her eyes bright and unsuspecting.  

"Yeah, finished a bit early," Ali replied, forcing a casual tone.  

Noor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Just in time to interrupt our girl talk," she teased, a playful glint in her eyes.  

Ali managed a chuckle, but his mind was far from ease. 




At evening 


Evening time ,Sheeza was playing with their 6 year old son Ayan ,Sheeza looked so homlely , doing her motherly duty. But the whisper he heard in the noon was still playing in his head ,her homely wife , doing something so filthy still can't believe it.





That night, unable to shake off the thoughts clawing at his mind, Ali found himself reaching for his phone once Sheeza had fallen asleep beside him. The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of his screen.  

He opened Instagram, searching through Sheeza's mutual connections first—looking for a name, a face, anything that could be Asish. Nothing. Her profile was neat, curated—family photos, vacations, occasional selfies. No sign of the reckless, wild past Noor had described.  

Frustrated but determined, he moved on to Noor's profile. Noor's account was more vibrant, unapologetically bold—pictures of parties, group photos, nights out. It didn't take long for him to find four profiles named Ashish. Two were private, hidden behind locked profiles, but two were open.  

One of them caught his eye—a muscular, athletic man, sharply handsome with a confident smile. Pictures of him at the gym, beach vacations, arms around friends. Ali's eyes lingered on a photo of him shirtless—broad shoulders, defined chest, the kind of physique that drew attention.  

Could this be him? The thought gnawed at him. Was this the man who had once been with Sheeza? The man whose name she couldn't outright reject meeting? The man whose cock she had taken in her mouth, wild and reckless, while Noor watched from the backseat?  

Ali's fingers trembled. He didn't know whether to feel angry, betrayed, or something far more twisted. That night, when he finally managed to sleep, nightmares plagued him.  

He saw Sheeza—not the gentle, devoted wife he knew, but a different version of her. She was on her knees, her head bobbing as she took in a thick, veined cock, her eyes half-closed, a look of raw lust on her face. Noor's mocking laughter echoed somewhere in the background, taunting him, reminding him that this version of his wife had existed long before him.  

Ali woke up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, his arousal throbbing shamefully beneath the sheets. He glanced at Sheeza, peacefully asleep beside him, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside him.  

It happened again the next night—and the night after that. Each time, the visions were more vivid, more explicit. Each time, he woke up aching, confused, torn between resentment and an unwanted arousal he could barely understand.




Over the next few days, Ali kept a close eye on Sheeza. He watched her closely—her routine, her behavior, her interactions. Did she seem distracted? Was she texting more than usual? Did she ever slip away for private calls?  

But there was nothing. She was just... Sheeza—his wife, the mother of his child, carrying on as usual. Her days seemed devoted to Ayan, managing the house, and occasionally chatting with Noor. If there were any traces of Asish lingering in her life, they were expertly concealed.  

Two weeks later, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, Ali found himself in the storeroom, searching for some of his old belongings. Amid the clutter of forgotten boxes and unused items, he noticed a small, worn-out diary. It was dusty, the pages slightly yellowed with age. Curious, he flipped it open and felt his breath hitch—it was Sheeza's.  

The dates inside were from her college days, years before they had met. He frowned, trying to recall how this had ended up in their home. Then it clicked—about two years ago, Sheeza’s parents had sent over some of her old things when they were shifting houses. This must have been among them.  

Ali's heart pounded. Could this diary hold the answers he had been searching for? Could Asish’s name be scribbled in these pages—an account of her past, her feelings, her experiences?  

A part of him hesitated. Reading someone’s diary felt like an invasion, a betrayal. But the memory of Noor’s words, the taunting images of Sheeza’s past, haunted him. He needed to know

Carefully, he slipped the diary into a drawer, hiding it away. He would read it later, when he could be alone—when Sheeza and Ayan were asleep. For now, it would remain a secret, a key to a past he wasn’t sure he was ready to confront.




That afternoon, when the house was silent and Sheeza and Ayan were asleep, Ali carefully retrieved the diary. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it, flipping through the pages filled with Sheeza's neat, flowing handwriting.

At first, it was mundane—her classes, her friends, her dreams and insecurities. There were mentions of college events, her professors, silly notes about Noor. It was an innocent glimpse into the younger version of the woman he married.

But then, between two pages, a photograph slipped out. Ali’s heart stilled. It was Sheeza—much younger, with a youthful glow and a thinner figure. She wore a red-pink sweater, jeans, and a red muffler. Her smile was wide, carefree, her eyes bright. Standing beside her, his arm casually around her shoulder, was a man. Muscular, tall, handsome. Ashish.

The background was a hill station—snow-dusted, picturesque. Manali. The name struck a chord.

Ali’s fingers tightened around the photo as he skimmed the pages nearby.

"The Manali trip was unforgettable—the most beautiful memories of my life. A made everything special. A brought me that pink sweater. It still smells like that trip, like those days. Like him."

His eyes lingered on the initial, A. There was no doubt it was Ashish. The trip Noor had taunted Sheeza about, the trip where she had apparently been reckless, uninhibited, shameless.

And then a memory flashed—one he hadn't thought of in years. A smoky room, college friends, passing around a phone. A grainy video clip—poorly lit, a couple tangled together, the girl riding the man with an urgency that made the clip so infamous. Someone had whispered, "It's a viral MMS from Manali."

Ali had seen that video countless times. Back then, it was just a scandalous clip—blurry, anonymous, thrilling . The girl's face had been mostly covered by her hair, but her pink sweater had stood out. A tight, red-pink sweater. Just like the one Sheeza wore in this picture.

His stomach twisted. Had he unknowingly watched his own wife—before she was his wife—fucking with another man ? Had he jerked off to her, fantasized over her, without even realizing it?

Ali stared at the sweater in the photo, his thoughts a chaotic storm. The idea seemed impossible, absurd. But the possibility loomed, taunting him, making his heart pound and his hands tremble.

Was it her? Was that girl in mms is Sheeza?

He shut the diary abruptly, shoving it back into the drawer. The weight of what he had just unearthed pressed heavily on his chest, leaving him breathless, aroused, and tormented all at once.