Shaktimaan ki Choti Choti par Moti Baatein
In office, Ravi’s mind was also in a whirlwind. The previous evening’s conversation had left a quiet ember in Ravi’s mind. He hadn’t closed the browser tab after reading about Niyoga—Wikipedia, a couple of blogs, a forum thread comparing it to modern donor insemination. The laptop had gone to sleep with that page still open.
This morning, when he sat down at the study table after breakfast to check emails, the screen woke to the same tab. He stared at it for a second—Niyoga in bold letters, the Mahabharata examples, the rules about duty over desire—then shrugged and opened a new window for work. But the seed was planted.
Around 10:30, during a tea break, he returned. The house was quiet; Simran had stepped out early, Bhola was in the kitchen. Ravi clicked back into the tab almost without thinking.
He read again—slowly this time. The clinical tone of the articles, the ancient acceptance of a woman lying with another man for the sake of lineage, the way the biological father simply vanished from the picture. His mind wandered. *How would that even work today? A clinic? A private arrangement?*
One link led to another. A modern discussion forum popped up—real stories, anonymized, of couples using “traditional methods” when IVF failed. Then came the videos. YouTube had nothing explicit, but the algorithm knew what he was chasing. It pushed him toward adult sites, surrogacy testimonials, “real Indian cuckold” playlists. He clicked—curiosity, not intent. This is gentleman called dopamine effect. You keep on searching for pleasure centres and until that scratch is met, you will keep on searching. This search can become visual, audio and it can definitely become physical, but the worst of it remains……your imagination. Your imagination is the biggest trigger that can fuck you up. That’s how you can shag yourself to glory by just closing your eyes imagining the most erotic tingle that can be touched and its without any visual, audio or physical stimuli. Anyways lots of Biology in this. Lets get back to out dopamine thirsty husband here.
The first clip: a wife on her back, saree hiked up, brother-in-law between her legs, slow, deliberate thrusts while the husband watched from the corner, stroking himself. Moans in Hindi—“Aaahhh… devarji… aur zor se…”—mixed with the wet slap of skin. Ravi’s hand moved unconsciously over his pants, cock thickening against the fabric.
Another: father-in-law this time, gray-haired, powerful, pinning the young bahu against the wall, saree torn open, her breasts bouncing as he fucked her standing. “Babuji… aaaahhh… please…” The husband filming it, voice shaky with arousal.
Neighbor next—random, rough, the wife bent over the kitchen counter while her husband held her hair, encouraging. “Le le… pura andar le…”
Ravi’s breathing grew shallow. He stroked faster over the cloth, hips lifting slightly off the chair. Lust took over completely—he forgot Niyoga, forgot the ancient scripture, forgot why he’d started. All that remained was the screen, the moans, the sight of women being filled by men who weren’t their husbands.
“Aaahhh… ahhh… aaaahhh…” His own muffled moans escaped—low, desperate—hand squeezing his cock through the pants as he edged closer. The final clip pushed him over: a wife riding her devar reverse cowgirl, ass bouncing, breasts swinging, husband kneeling in front, sucking her nipples while she cried out in pleasure.
Ravi came hard—hot spurts soaking the inside of his pants, body jerking in the chair, a strangled “Aaaahhh…” slipping out as he rode the waves.
When it ended, silence crashed in. He stared at the frozen screen, cum cooling against his skin, shame and confusion flooding back.
What the fuck did I just do? This is called gentleman the death of dpopamine. The moment you have your itch scratched, you orgasm and then dopamine is no more needed by the body. You stop and feel it was such a waste of time. That’s why when you fuck someone purely because of lust and you know deep down that person can never be yours or is below your dignity, you feel you wasted your time fucking her. That’s what happens in a male’s brain. Female on the other hand has a different wiring inside their brain. They never feel satisfied. Their itch cannot be scratched by just physical intimacy. They need mental dialogue and support to continue in this. Why the fuck am I explaining all this?
Back to Ravi.
He cleaned up quickly—wiped himself, changed pants, closed every tab, cleared history. But the images lingered. The sounds. The idea of another man inside Simran. He tried to push it down, buried himself in work for the rest of the day, but the tingle stayed—low, permanent, like a wire now live inside him.
When he came home that evening, the flat was quiet. Simran wasn’t there.
He called her.
“Jaan, where are you?”
“Shopping, Ravi. Needed a few things. I’ll be back soon.”
He exhaled, relieved she was okay, but the house felt too empty. He sat on the sofa, staring at nothing, the day’s events replaying in fragments—Niyoga, videos, his own hand, his own release.
The tingle didn’t fade.
It never would.
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