10-04-2025, 09:15 AM
I watched, my phone nearly slipping from my grip, the stall’s cold air useless against the heat choking me. Her orgasm—gosh, my sweet, sexy wife had cum so hard, slumping on him like that—and then he’d still fucked her, outlasting me even at his limit, his thick cock giving her what my pencil-dick never could. My own release stained my thigh, a pathetic burst gone in a blink. Oh how my quick, useless cum mocked his long, filthy climax. Their sweaty, spent bodies sprawled there, her on top, him beneath, and I was nothing—burning, breaking, lost in their mess.
Then, to my shock, Mr. Banerjee’s pudgy arms slid around her, pulling her against his hairy chest, her slick tits squishing into him as she slumped there, her head lolling on his shoulder. His thick beard brushed her cheek as he leaned in, planting a soft, sloppy kiss on her lips—wet and lazy, spit smearing between them, nothing tender, just tired and messy. She kissed back, her hand resting on his sweaty paunch, fingers idly patting it as his cum leaked from her pussy, a thick, white trickle oozing down her dusky thigh onto the sheets. He kissed her again, softer but sloppier, his tongue poking out to lap at her mouth, leaving a shiny trail on her chin.
This was a stark contrast to Harpreet—when that brutish plumber accidentally came inside her, she’d freaked out. But here, with Banerjee’s deliberate load dripping from her, she just lay there, unbothered, letting it stain the bed like it was nothing. My jaw dropped, the phone trembling in my hand—despite my useless sperm, I was still surprised she took it so casually, her ease with this old bastard’s mess hitting me harder than the sex itself, twisting my gut with a raw, confusing sting.
After a while, he stirred. He patted her hip with a heavy hand, mouthing something before peeling himself off the bed, his hairy ass swaying as he stood. Aradhya stayed sprawled there, her dusky skin slick with sweat and his cum, her bouncy tits rising with shallow breaths as she watched him dress. He pulled his stained underwear up over his softened cock, then tugged his trousers and kurta back on, the fabric clinging to his sweaty frame. With a final leer at her leaking pussy, he shuffled out of the room, leaving her alone on the wrecked sheets.
She lay there a moment, catching her breath, the cum still trickling from her, then reached for her phone on the nightstand. My screen flickered as my own phone buzzed in my hand—her name flashing across it. I fumbled to answer, my heart racing, but it cut off before I could swipe, a missed call blinking at me. Then a message popped up: “Hope you enjoyed that, baby,” followed by a winking emoji. On the feed, she sat up slightly, her sweaty hair falling over her shoulders, and looked right at the camera—my hidden lens—and blew a slow, deliberate kiss, her lips curling into a teasing smile before she flopped back onto the bed, stretching out like she owned the aftermath.
I sat frozen, my cum-sticky thigh cold now, my phone heavy in my grip. The kisses, the cum leaking from her—fuck, it was casual, dirty, not like with Harpreet, and that contrast shredded what little I had left. Despite my infertility, her nonchalance shocked me, and that message, that kiss—she knew I’d watched, knew I’d cum, and she played it like a game, leaving me here, spent and small, while she lounged in our bed, marked by him. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, just stared at her through the screen, for a few odd minutes.
Then something snapped—an electric jolt shot through me, excitement bubbling up past the shame, hot and urgent. I had to get home, now. I fumbled with my trousers, yanking them up over my sticky thighs, the fabric chafing as I zipped up, my cock already twitching again despite the quick release. I shoved my phone into my pocket, hands trembling, and bolted from the stall, the cold office bathroom air hitting me like a slap as I stumbled toward the sink.
I splashed water on my face, barely glancing at the mirror—my flushed cheeks, wild eyes, sweat-matted hair staring back, a man unhinged but alive with it. The excitement churned, a twisted thrill I couldn’t name—part dread, part need—driving me to get to her, to see her in the flesh, still dripping with him, still smirking like she’d won. I grabbed my bag from my cubicle, muttering some excuse to a coworker about feeling sick, my voice shaky but insistent. The elevator ride down was torture, every second stretching as I tapped my foot, imagining her on that bed, her dusky skin slick, her bouncy tits bare, that message echoing in my skull: “Hope you enjoyed that, baby.”
Out on the street, the late afternoon sun blared, but I barely felt it, my legs carrying me to the car in a haze. I slid into the driver’s seat, keys jangling as I started the engine, my breath ragged with anticipation. The drive home loomed—twenty minutes if traffic was kind, an eternity if it wasn’t—and every red light would be a taunt, every mile a test of this buzzing, reckless energy pushing me forward. I didn’t know what I’d do when I got there—confront her, fuck her, collapse at her feet—but I had to see her, had to feel the weight of what she’d done, what I’d let happen, what I’d loved despite myself. I peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing, the excitement a live wire in my veins, pulling me home to her.
The drive was a blur—red lights ignored, horns blaring as I weaved through traffic, my pulse hammering in my ears. Twenty minutes shrank to fifteen, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, every thought fixed on my wife—her sweaty body, that teasing kiss, the cum leaking from her. I parked crooked in the driveway, nearly slamming the car door off its hinges as I bolted inside, keys clattering to the floor as I burst through the front door, my breath ragged and wild.
The bedroom door was ajar, and there she was—sprawled across our bed, a vision of filthy aftermath. Her dusky skin gleamed with dried sweat, her hair a tangled, damp mess fanned out on the pillow. Her bouncy tits rose and fell with slow, resting breaths, nipples still faintly red from his hands, glistening faintly in the dim light. Her legs were splayed, thighs parted just enough to show the sticky mess between them—Mr. Banerjee’s thick, white cum still oozing from her pussy, streaking her bush and pooling on the sheets beneath her plump ass. The air stank of sex—sweat, musk, and him—a raw, used-up scent that hit me like a drug. She looked wrecked, claimed, resting there like a queen in the ruin he’d left, and it was the hottest fucking thing I’d ever seen.
I lost it. The excitement, the shame, the need collided in a roaring explosion, and I couldn’t hold back—I lunged at the bed, my hands shaking with a hunger I couldn’t name, desperate to touch her, to feel her under me. She’d been dozing, her body relaxed in the aftermath, but as I climbed onto the mattress, the creak of the springs and the shift of my weight stirred her. My hands grabbed her shoulders, not hard enough to jolt her, but firm, possessive, pulling her toward me as I loomed over her. Her eyes fluttered open, bleary at first, then widening with surprise as she registered me—“Ari?”—her voice thick with sleep, husky and soft, a question hanging in the air. She didn’t push me away, didn’t flinch, just blinked up at me, her gaze catching the wild, feral hunger in my eyes, the flush on my face, the way my chest heaved like I’d run a marathon to get to her. She was caught off guard, her brows lifting slightly, but there was no resistance—just a curious stillness as she woke fully, her body shifting under my grip.
I crashed my mouth onto hers, kissing her hard and sloppy, my lips smashing against hers with a desperate edge, my tongue shoving past her lips to claim her. I tasted her—faint salt of sweat, the lingering heat of her exertion, and maybe a trace of him still there, a dark, filthy echo clinging to her breath and tongue. It wasn’t just sweat or her—it was him, that old bastard, his rank, musky stench from when she’d buried her face in his hairy, grimy ass, her tongue lapping at his sweaty crack, swallowing down the sour filth of his unwashed skin. And those sloppy kisses they’d shared after, his thick beard smearing spit across her mouth, his tongue shoving into her, leaving behind the bitter tang of his cum and sweat, a nasty cocktail she’d taken without flinching. I could taste it now, faint but unmistakable—a stale, earthy bite, a mix of his hairy ass and his lecherous mouth lingering on her lips, her breath, coating my tongue as I plunged deeper, the thought of it twisting my gut and spiking my lust into something primal.
Aradhya didn’t resist, didn’t pull back; instead, she let me take her, her lips softening under mine, parting wider as she woke to my need, her surprise melting into a passive surrender that only fueled me more. I yanked my trousers down, my average cock springing free—nothing special, not thin but no match for Banerjee’s girth—already leaking as I shoved her thighs apart. “You’re—sooooo eager.”, she mumbled, half-laughing, still surprised, but her legs parted wider, welcoming me as I pressed into her. She was slick, sloppy from him, and I thrust in fast, my cock sliding into that old bastard's mess, feeling her stretched heat swallow me. She moaned softly, her hips shifting to meet me, and I fucked her hard, my hands gripping her hips, her bouncy tits jiggling under me as I tried to reclaim her. My premature curse loomed—I knew I wouldn’t last—my thrusts frantic, sloppy, driven by a need to mark her over him, but within seconds, my balls tightened, and I groaned, spilling into her, my quick, pitiful load mixing with his, my body shaking as I collapsed over her, spent too soon.
I didn’t pull away. My suit jacket clung to my sweaty back, tie askew, shirt rumpled, but my trousers stayed pooled around my ankles, my bare legs tangled with hers. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close, and I slumped into her embrace, my head resting on her shoulder, her bouncy tits pressed against my chest through the fabric. My softening cock stayed nestled against her thigh, slick and sticky with her juices, my cum, and the thick, lingering mess of Banerjee’s load—a filthy cocktail coating me, dripping down my shaft, smearing onto her skin as we lay there. Her dusky body was warm, still faintly trembling from everything, and we rested like that, breathing together, the room heavy with the stench of sex and sweat.
After a quiet stretch, her fingers traced lazy lines along my arm, and she spoke first, her voice soft but steady.
“You’re a mess, Ari.”, she said, a faint tease in her tone, her breath warm against my ear.
I shifted, glancing down at my cum-streaked dick, then back at her, my throat tight. “Yeah, well… so are you.”, I muttered, my voice rough, jealousy spiking through me as I pictured Banerjee’s fat cock stretching her, leaving her like this. But there was something else too—relief, maybe happiness, seeing her relaxed, satisfied in a way I couldn’t manage alone. “You liked it, didn’t you? Him fucking you like that?”
She didn’t flinch, just met my eyes, her lips curling into a small, tired smile. “It was… intense.”, she admitted, her hand resting on my chest now, feeling my heartbeat through the suit. “But I’m okay—better than okay, actually. You don’t have to worry.” Her voice softened, a flicker of gratitude in it. “I’m lucky, you know? Having you… letting me have this. Not every guy would.” She squeezed my arm, her touch gentle but firm, like she meant it.
“I just… I hate that he can do that to you, give you that, and I—”, I stopped, my voice cracking, the inadequacy stinging. “But you’re happy, right? That’s what matters. I just… I need to know you’re okay after him.” My hand slid to her hip, possessive but careful, feeling the sweat and stickiness there, my concern mixing with the strange, quiet joy of her being here with me now.
“I am.”, she murmured, leaning in to press her forehead against mine, her damp hair brushing my face. “I’m good, Arijit. And I’ve got you—my crazy, understanding husband who ran home like that.” She chuckled softly, the sound lightening the air, and I couldn’t help a small, shaky laugh back, the tension easing just a bit. We stayed like that, her naked and me half-dressed in my suit, sticky and spent, talking in low whispers—jealousy, happiness, and gratitude tangling together in the messy afterglow.
Then, to my shock, Mr. Banerjee’s pudgy arms slid around her, pulling her against his hairy chest, her slick tits squishing into him as she slumped there, her head lolling on his shoulder. His thick beard brushed her cheek as he leaned in, planting a soft, sloppy kiss on her lips—wet and lazy, spit smearing between them, nothing tender, just tired and messy. She kissed back, her hand resting on his sweaty paunch, fingers idly patting it as his cum leaked from her pussy, a thick, white trickle oozing down her dusky thigh onto the sheets. He kissed her again, softer but sloppier, his tongue poking out to lap at her mouth, leaving a shiny trail on her chin.
This was a stark contrast to Harpreet—when that brutish plumber accidentally came inside her, she’d freaked out. But here, with Banerjee’s deliberate load dripping from her, she just lay there, unbothered, letting it stain the bed like it was nothing. My jaw dropped, the phone trembling in my hand—despite my useless sperm, I was still surprised she took it so casually, her ease with this old bastard’s mess hitting me harder than the sex itself, twisting my gut with a raw, confusing sting.
After a while, he stirred. He patted her hip with a heavy hand, mouthing something before peeling himself off the bed, his hairy ass swaying as he stood. Aradhya stayed sprawled there, her dusky skin slick with sweat and his cum, her bouncy tits rising with shallow breaths as she watched him dress. He pulled his stained underwear up over his softened cock, then tugged his trousers and kurta back on, the fabric clinging to his sweaty frame. With a final leer at her leaking pussy, he shuffled out of the room, leaving her alone on the wrecked sheets.
She lay there a moment, catching her breath, the cum still trickling from her, then reached for her phone on the nightstand. My screen flickered as my own phone buzzed in my hand—her name flashing across it. I fumbled to answer, my heart racing, but it cut off before I could swipe, a missed call blinking at me. Then a message popped up: “Hope you enjoyed that, baby,” followed by a winking emoji. On the feed, she sat up slightly, her sweaty hair falling over her shoulders, and looked right at the camera—my hidden lens—and blew a slow, deliberate kiss, her lips curling into a teasing smile before she flopped back onto the bed, stretching out like she owned the aftermath.
I sat frozen, my cum-sticky thigh cold now, my phone heavy in my grip. The kisses, the cum leaking from her—fuck, it was casual, dirty, not like with Harpreet, and that contrast shredded what little I had left. Despite my infertility, her nonchalance shocked me, and that message, that kiss—she knew I’d watched, knew I’d cum, and she played it like a game, leaving me here, spent and small, while she lounged in our bed, marked by him. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, just stared at her through the screen, for a few odd minutes.
Then something snapped—an electric jolt shot through me, excitement bubbling up past the shame, hot and urgent. I had to get home, now. I fumbled with my trousers, yanking them up over my sticky thighs, the fabric chafing as I zipped up, my cock already twitching again despite the quick release. I shoved my phone into my pocket, hands trembling, and bolted from the stall, the cold office bathroom air hitting me like a slap as I stumbled toward the sink.
I splashed water on my face, barely glancing at the mirror—my flushed cheeks, wild eyes, sweat-matted hair staring back, a man unhinged but alive with it. The excitement churned, a twisted thrill I couldn’t name—part dread, part need—driving me to get to her, to see her in the flesh, still dripping with him, still smirking like she’d won. I grabbed my bag from my cubicle, muttering some excuse to a coworker about feeling sick, my voice shaky but insistent. The elevator ride down was torture, every second stretching as I tapped my foot, imagining her on that bed, her dusky skin slick, her bouncy tits bare, that message echoing in my skull: “Hope you enjoyed that, baby.”
Out on the street, the late afternoon sun blared, but I barely felt it, my legs carrying me to the car in a haze. I slid into the driver’s seat, keys jangling as I started the engine, my breath ragged with anticipation. The drive home loomed—twenty minutes if traffic was kind, an eternity if it wasn’t—and every red light would be a taunt, every mile a test of this buzzing, reckless energy pushing me forward. I didn’t know what I’d do when I got there—confront her, fuck her, collapse at her feet—but I had to see her, had to feel the weight of what she’d done, what I’d let happen, what I’d loved despite myself. I peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing, the excitement a live wire in my veins, pulling me home to her.
The drive was a blur—red lights ignored, horns blaring as I weaved through traffic, my pulse hammering in my ears. Twenty minutes shrank to fifteen, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, every thought fixed on my wife—her sweaty body, that teasing kiss, the cum leaking from her. I parked crooked in the driveway, nearly slamming the car door off its hinges as I bolted inside, keys clattering to the floor as I burst through the front door, my breath ragged and wild.
The bedroom door was ajar, and there she was—sprawled across our bed, a vision of filthy aftermath. Her dusky skin gleamed with dried sweat, her hair a tangled, damp mess fanned out on the pillow. Her bouncy tits rose and fell with slow, resting breaths, nipples still faintly red from his hands, glistening faintly in the dim light. Her legs were splayed, thighs parted just enough to show the sticky mess between them—Mr. Banerjee’s thick, white cum still oozing from her pussy, streaking her bush and pooling on the sheets beneath her plump ass. The air stank of sex—sweat, musk, and him—a raw, used-up scent that hit me like a drug. She looked wrecked, claimed, resting there like a queen in the ruin he’d left, and it was the hottest fucking thing I’d ever seen.
I lost it. The excitement, the shame, the need collided in a roaring explosion, and I couldn’t hold back—I lunged at the bed, my hands shaking with a hunger I couldn’t name, desperate to touch her, to feel her under me. She’d been dozing, her body relaxed in the aftermath, but as I climbed onto the mattress, the creak of the springs and the shift of my weight stirred her. My hands grabbed her shoulders, not hard enough to jolt her, but firm, possessive, pulling her toward me as I loomed over her. Her eyes fluttered open, bleary at first, then widening with surprise as she registered me—“Ari?”—her voice thick with sleep, husky and soft, a question hanging in the air. She didn’t push me away, didn’t flinch, just blinked up at me, her gaze catching the wild, feral hunger in my eyes, the flush on my face, the way my chest heaved like I’d run a marathon to get to her. She was caught off guard, her brows lifting slightly, but there was no resistance—just a curious stillness as she woke fully, her body shifting under my grip.
I crashed my mouth onto hers, kissing her hard and sloppy, my lips smashing against hers with a desperate edge, my tongue shoving past her lips to claim her. I tasted her—faint salt of sweat, the lingering heat of her exertion, and maybe a trace of him still there, a dark, filthy echo clinging to her breath and tongue. It wasn’t just sweat or her—it was him, that old bastard, his rank, musky stench from when she’d buried her face in his hairy, grimy ass, her tongue lapping at his sweaty crack, swallowing down the sour filth of his unwashed skin. And those sloppy kisses they’d shared after, his thick beard smearing spit across her mouth, his tongue shoving into her, leaving behind the bitter tang of his cum and sweat, a nasty cocktail she’d taken without flinching. I could taste it now, faint but unmistakable—a stale, earthy bite, a mix of his hairy ass and his lecherous mouth lingering on her lips, her breath, coating my tongue as I plunged deeper, the thought of it twisting my gut and spiking my lust into something primal.
Aradhya didn’t resist, didn’t pull back; instead, she let me take her, her lips softening under mine, parting wider as she woke to my need, her surprise melting into a passive surrender that only fueled me more. I yanked my trousers down, my average cock springing free—nothing special, not thin but no match for Banerjee’s girth—already leaking as I shoved her thighs apart. “You’re—sooooo eager.”, she mumbled, half-laughing, still surprised, but her legs parted wider, welcoming me as I pressed into her. She was slick, sloppy from him, and I thrust in fast, my cock sliding into that old bastard's mess, feeling her stretched heat swallow me. She moaned softly, her hips shifting to meet me, and I fucked her hard, my hands gripping her hips, her bouncy tits jiggling under me as I tried to reclaim her. My premature curse loomed—I knew I wouldn’t last—my thrusts frantic, sloppy, driven by a need to mark her over him, but within seconds, my balls tightened, and I groaned, spilling into her, my quick, pitiful load mixing with his, my body shaking as I collapsed over her, spent too soon.
I didn’t pull away. My suit jacket clung to my sweaty back, tie askew, shirt rumpled, but my trousers stayed pooled around my ankles, my bare legs tangled with hers. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close, and I slumped into her embrace, my head resting on her shoulder, her bouncy tits pressed against my chest through the fabric. My softening cock stayed nestled against her thigh, slick and sticky with her juices, my cum, and the thick, lingering mess of Banerjee’s load—a filthy cocktail coating me, dripping down my shaft, smearing onto her skin as we lay there. Her dusky body was warm, still faintly trembling from everything, and we rested like that, breathing together, the room heavy with the stench of sex and sweat.
After a quiet stretch, her fingers traced lazy lines along my arm, and she spoke first, her voice soft but steady.
“You’re a mess, Ari.”, she said, a faint tease in her tone, her breath warm against my ear.
I shifted, glancing down at my cum-streaked dick, then back at her, my throat tight. “Yeah, well… so are you.”, I muttered, my voice rough, jealousy spiking through me as I pictured Banerjee’s fat cock stretching her, leaving her like this. But there was something else too—relief, maybe happiness, seeing her relaxed, satisfied in a way I couldn’t manage alone. “You liked it, didn’t you? Him fucking you like that?”
She didn’t flinch, just met my eyes, her lips curling into a small, tired smile. “It was… intense.”, she admitted, her hand resting on my chest now, feeling my heartbeat through the suit. “But I’m okay—better than okay, actually. You don’t have to worry.” Her voice softened, a flicker of gratitude in it. “I’m lucky, you know? Having you… letting me have this. Not every guy would.” She squeezed my arm, her touch gentle but firm, like she meant it.
“I just… I hate that he can do that to you, give you that, and I—”, I stopped, my voice cracking, the inadequacy stinging. “But you’re happy, right? That’s what matters. I just… I need to know you’re okay after him.” My hand slid to her hip, possessive but careful, feeling the sweat and stickiness there, my concern mixing with the strange, quiet joy of her being here with me now.
“I am.”, she murmured, leaning in to press her forehead against mine, her damp hair brushing my face. “I’m good, Arijit. And I’ve got you—my crazy, understanding husband who ran home like that.” She chuckled softly, the sound lightening the air, and I couldn’t help a small, shaky laugh back, the tension easing just a bit. We stayed like that, her naked and me half-dressed in my suit, sticky and spent, talking in low whispers—jealousy, happiness, and gratitude tangling together in the messy afterglow.
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