03-02-2026, 12:51 PM
After a night of intense sex, I woke up late the next morning. Puja was still asleep, so I left for the office without breakfast.
When I was returning home after finishing work, I saw Puja standing near the gate with some shopping bags. And standing right beside her was Aslam Chacha. The two of them were talking, and every now and then Puja was smiling at something he said.
![[Image: 1770102111843.png]](https://i.ibb.co/353QpCcw/1770102111843.png)
Something about it felt strange. In the evenings, when we went jogging, they barely exchanged a word. And now here they were, laughing and chatting so comfortably.
My body reacted instantly; desire surged through me again. Curiosity gnawed at me—I wanted to know what they were talking about. I couldn’t control myself and walked straight up to them.
Me: “Arre, aaj aap dono ek saath? Kahin meri aankhon ko dhokha to nahi ho raha? Shaam ko to dono ek-dusre se baat karne mein jhijhak rahe the.”
Puja: “Nahi, aisi koi baat nahi hai. Main market gayi thi, to Chacha pooch rahe the kahan gayi thi.”
Aslam: “Haan, bas wahi pooch raha tha.”
Inside my head, I kept thinking—then what was that smile for?
Me:“Achha, theek hai. Tum dono baat karo.”
Puja: “Unhone poochha, maine bata diya. Aur kya baat karni? Main bhi chalti hoon.”
Then we all walked back together. I didn’t believe Puja’s explanation at all. If that was all, then why had she been smiling like that? So I came up with a plan—to find out what really went on between them.
I had bought a tiny voice recorder, small enough to hide anywhere. It could clearly record nearby conversations without being noticed. The next day, before leaving for the office, I slipped it inside Puja’s vanity. I knew she had a parlour appointment that day, which meant she’d be going out—and there was a chance she might run into Aslam.
At the office, I couldn’t focus at all. My body was there, but my mind was consumed by one thought—what would the recorder capture? Did they talk? What did they talk about? What kind of conversation made Puja smile like that? The more I thought about it, the more restless and aroused I became.
The moment work ended, I rushed home. Puja was cooking. Usually, by the time I arrived, dinner was already prepared—but that day she was late. She had just returned from the parlour. She looked stunning—almost unreal—beautiful and irresistibly hot.
Me:“Wooow, jaan… bahut hi khoobsurat lag rahi ho. Mann kar raha hai abhi tumhein baahon mein le loon aur poori body par kiss karta jaoon.”
Puja: “Rehne dijiye. Nahi to aaj bhookha rehna padega.”
Me: “Par aaj itni der kyun? Ab tak to dinner ban jaata hai.”
Puja: “Haan, parlour se aate waqt late ho gaya.”
All I could think about was whether she had spoken to Aslam that day or not. My eyes kept darting around, searching for the vanity. I was desperate to retrieve the recorder and listen to it—but I couldn’t do it yet. Night was the only safe time.
We had dinner. Then Puja herself said we wouldn’t go jogging that night. Instead, we went for a walk. That day, Aslam Chacha wasn’t at the gate. As we crossed it, I noticed Puja looking around repeatedly.
Me:“Kya hua? Kisi ko dhoond rahi ho kya?”
Puja:
“Main kyun kisi ko dhoondungi? Par aaj gate par koi watchman dikh nahi raha.”
In my mind, I thought—koi watchman ya Aslam Chacha?
Me:
“Haan, aaj aapke Aslam Chacha bhi dikh nahi rahe.”
Puja:
“Kya matlab mere Chacha? Main bas aise hi keh rahi thi ki koi nahi hai. Kahin society mein chori-wori to nahi ho gayi.”
I couldn’t tell whether she was worried about a thief—or about Aslam not being there.
I had no patience left. All I wanted was to hear that recording. We didn’t have sex that night. I told her I was tired and suggested we sleep. Puja fell asleep quickly.
I quietly got up, took the recorder out of the vanity, and sat in the drawing room. I fast-forwarded through the recording—parlour talk, random chatter—none of it interested me. I kept skipping ahead.
Then suddenly… I heard a male voice.
I recognized it instantly. It was Aslam Chacha.
Aslam:
“Salam, memsaab. Aaj phir se bahar gayi thi… Mash,.'.”
![[Image: 1764654912932.png]](https://i.ibb.co/Mk6TWFNW/1764654912932.png)
Puja:
“Kya hua, Chacha?!”
Aslam:
“Bhagwan ne aapko badi fursat se banaya hai, memsaab.”
Puja:
“Aisa to nahi… aap bhi na.”
Aslam:
“Main sach bol raha hoon, memsaab. Aap jannat ki pari lag rahi ho.”
Puja:
“Ha ha… aap subah bhi aisa hi bol rahe the.”
(So this was why Puja had been smiling today.)
“Par main koi pari-wari nahi hoon. Mera husband to mujhe kabhi aisa nahi bolta.”
Aslam:
“Bewakoof hai aisa pati jo tum jaisi khoobsurat maal ki tareef na kare.”
(He deliberately emphasized the word maal.)
“Main hota to sirf baaton se tareef nahi karta—kuch aur tareeke se karta.”
Puja:
“Matlab? Main samjhi nahi.”
Aslam:
“Kuch nahi, memsaab.”
Puja:
“Arre Chacha, aap gol-gol baat kyun kar rahe ho? Mujhe kuch samajh nahi aa raha.”
Aslam:
“Memsaab, agar main tumhare pati ki jagah hota, to ghar se hi bahar nahi nikalta. Mera mann hi nahi karta. Ghar se kya—bed se bhi neeche nahi utarta.”
At that moment, Puja understood exactly which direction the conversation was heading.
Puja:
“Achha Chacha, late ho raha hai. Main chalti hoon. Dinner banana hai.”
Aslam:
“Arre memsaab, aap to bura maan gayi. Aapne hi bola tha ghoom-phira ke baat na karo, to jo sahi laga maine seedha bol diya.”
After that, there were no further conversations. Which meant Puja had left immediately.
Hearing this, it felt as though molten lava was about to burst out of me. I went straight to the bathroom and masturbated. The release was so intense it surpassed anything real sex had ever given me. I understood then—on both sides, a spark had already been ignited. Now it was only a matter of time before it turned into a fire. How fiercely each of them would burn—that would reveal itself in due course.
This confirmed one thing clearly: Puja was not uninterested in such conversations. Had she been, she would have snapped at Aslam instantly. But she didn’t. She neither reacted angrily nor protested. She was a married woman, so she didn’t move forward—but she also didn’t shut it down.
There’s a saying: silence often means consent.
Somewhere, in some corner of her mind, she was enjoying it. She was restraining herself only because of her marital boundary.
But I had no intention of stopping.
All I needed was to fan the flames just a little. I knew this could mean losing my wife—but at that moment, I was enjoying every second of it. Imagining another man’s desire directed at my wife made me lose all control over myself.
I decided I would light the spark—but before that, I would make arrangements to witness everything: the beginning of the fire, its rise, its rage, and the moment it reduced everything to ashes. I decided to install CCTV cameras throughout the house so I could see everything.
But how would that be possible while Puja was at home?
So I planned to send her away for a few days.
The next morning, before leaving for office—
Me:
“Jaan, next weekend mujhe office ke kaam se do din ke liye bahar jaana hai. Tum akele kaise rahogi? Do din ke liye ghar se ho aao.”
Puja:
“Par main akele kaise jaaun? Wahan koi paas ka nahi hai. Aap jao—do din ki hi to baat hai. Main reh lungi.”
(I was cornered. No matter what, I had to get Puja out of the house.)
Me:
“Jaan, tum bata rahi thi na ki Kolkata mein tumhari ek dost hai. Wahan ghoom aao. Dost se mulaqat ho jayegi, aur akele bhi nahi rahogi.”
Puja:
“Thik hai… dekhti hoon.”
Me:
“Achha jaan, main chalta hoon. Tum dost se baat kar lena. Friday ko main tumhein wahan chhod dunga.”
I kissed Puja and left for the office.
When I was returning home after finishing work, I saw Puja standing near the gate with some shopping bags. And standing right beside her was Aslam Chacha. The two of them were talking, and every now and then Puja was smiling at something he said.
Something about it felt strange. In the evenings, when we went jogging, they barely exchanged a word. And now here they were, laughing and chatting so comfortably.
My body reacted instantly; desire surged through me again. Curiosity gnawed at me—I wanted to know what they were talking about. I couldn’t control myself and walked straight up to them.
Me: “Arre, aaj aap dono ek saath? Kahin meri aankhon ko dhokha to nahi ho raha? Shaam ko to dono ek-dusre se baat karne mein jhijhak rahe the.”
Puja: “Nahi, aisi koi baat nahi hai. Main market gayi thi, to Chacha pooch rahe the kahan gayi thi.”
Aslam: “Haan, bas wahi pooch raha tha.”
Inside my head, I kept thinking—then what was that smile for?
Me:“Achha, theek hai. Tum dono baat karo.”
Puja: “Unhone poochha, maine bata diya. Aur kya baat karni? Main bhi chalti hoon.”
Then we all walked back together. I didn’t believe Puja’s explanation at all. If that was all, then why had she been smiling like that? So I came up with a plan—to find out what really went on between them.
I had bought a tiny voice recorder, small enough to hide anywhere. It could clearly record nearby conversations without being noticed. The next day, before leaving for the office, I slipped it inside Puja’s vanity. I knew she had a parlour appointment that day, which meant she’d be going out—and there was a chance she might run into Aslam.
At the office, I couldn’t focus at all. My body was there, but my mind was consumed by one thought—what would the recorder capture? Did they talk? What did they talk about? What kind of conversation made Puja smile like that? The more I thought about it, the more restless and aroused I became.
The moment work ended, I rushed home. Puja was cooking. Usually, by the time I arrived, dinner was already prepared—but that day she was late. She had just returned from the parlour. She looked stunning—almost unreal—beautiful and irresistibly hot.
Me:“Wooow, jaan… bahut hi khoobsurat lag rahi ho. Mann kar raha hai abhi tumhein baahon mein le loon aur poori body par kiss karta jaoon.”
Puja: “Rehne dijiye. Nahi to aaj bhookha rehna padega.”
Me: “Par aaj itni der kyun? Ab tak to dinner ban jaata hai.”
Puja: “Haan, parlour se aate waqt late ho gaya.”
All I could think about was whether she had spoken to Aslam that day or not. My eyes kept darting around, searching for the vanity. I was desperate to retrieve the recorder and listen to it—but I couldn’t do it yet. Night was the only safe time.
We had dinner. Then Puja herself said we wouldn’t go jogging that night. Instead, we went for a walk. That day, Aslam Chacha wasn’t at the gate. As we crossed it, I noticed Puja looking around repeatedly.
Me:“Kya hua? Kisi ko dhoond rahi ho kya?”
Puja:
“Main kyun kisi ko dhoondungi? Par aaj gate par koi watchman dikh nahi raha.”
In my mind, I thought—koi watchman ya Aslam Chacha?
Me:
“Haan, aaj aapke Aslam Chacha bhi dikh nahi rahe.”
Puja:
“Kya matlab mere Chacha? Main bas aise hi keh rahi thi ki koi nahi hai. Kahin society mein chori-wori to nahi ho gayi.”
I couldn’t tell whether she was worried about a thief—or about Aslam not being there.
I had no patience left. All I wanted was to hear that recording. We didn’t have sex that night. I told her I was tired and suggested we sleep. Puja fell asleep quickly.
I quietly got up, took the recorder out of the vanity, and sat in the drawing room. I fast-forwarded through the recording—parlour talk, random chatter—none of it interested me. I kept skipping ahead.
Then suddenly… I heard a male voice.
I recognized it instantly. It was Aslam Chacha.
Aslam:
“Salam, memsaab. Aaj phir se bahar gayi thi… Mash,.'.”
Puja:
“Kya hua, Chacha?!”
Aslam:
“Bhagwan ne aapko badi fursat se banaya hai, memsaab.”
Puja:
“Aisa to nahi… aap bhi na.”
Aslam:
“Main sach bol raha hoon, memsaab. Aap jannat ki pari lag rahi ho.”
Puja:
“Ha ha… aap subah bhi aisa hi bol rahe the.”
(So this was why Puja had been smiling today.)
“Par main koi pari-wari nahi hoon. Mera husband to mujhe kabhi aisa nahi bolta.”
Aslam:
“Bewakoof hai aisa pati jo tum jaisi khoobsurat maal ki tareef na kare.”
(He deliberately emphasized the word maal.)
“Main hota to sirf baaton se tareef nahi karta—kuch aur tareeke se karta.”
Puja:
“Matlab? Main samjhi nahi.”
Aslam:
“Kuch nahi, memsaab.”
Puja:
“Arre Chacha, aap gol-gol baat kyun kar rahe ho? Mujhe kuch samajh nahi aa raha.”
Aslam:
“Memsaab, agar main tumhare pati ki jagah hota, to ghar se hi bahar nahi nikalta. Mera mann hi nahi karta. Ghar se kya—bed se bhi neeche nahi utarta.”
At that moment, Puja understood exactly which direction the conversation was heading.
Puja:
“Achha Chacha, late ho raha hai. Main chalti hoon. Dinner banana hai.”
Aslam:
“Arre memsaab, aap to bura maan gayi. Aapne hi bola tha ghoom-phira ke baat na karo, to jo sahi laga maine seedha bol diya.”
After that, there were no further conversations. Which meant Puja had left immediately.
Hearing this, it felt as though molten lava was about to burst out of me. I went straight to the bathroom and masturbated. The release was so intense it surpassed anything real sex had ever given me. I understood then—on both sides, a spark had already been ignited. Now it was only a matter of time before it turned into a fire. How fiercely each of them would burn—that would reveal itself in due course.
This confirmed one thing clearly: Puja was not uninterested in such conversations. Had she been, she would have snapped at Aslam instantly. But she didn’t. She neither reacted angrily nor protested. She was a married woman, so she didn’t move forward—but she also didn’t shut it down.
There’s a saying: silence often means consent.
Somewhere, in some corner of her mind, she was enjoying it. She was restraining herself only because of her marital boundary.
But I had no intention of stopping.
All I needed was to fan the flames just a little. I knew this could mean losing my wife—but at that moment, I was enjoying every second of it. Imagining another man’s desire directed at my wife made me lose all control over myself.
I decided I would light the spark—but before that, I would make arrangements to witness everything: the beginning of the fire, its rise, its rage, and the moment it reduced everything to ashes. I decided to install CCTV cameras throughout the house so I could see everything.
But how would that be possible while Puja was at home?
So I planned to send her away for a few days.
The next morning, before leaving for office—
Me:
“Jaan, next weekend mujhe office ke kaam se do din ke liye bahar jaana hai. Tum akele kaise rahogi? Do din ke liye ghar se ho aao.”
Puja:
“Par main akele kaise jaaun? Wahan koi paas ka nahi hai. Aap jao—do din ki hi to baat hai. Main reh lungi.”
(I was cornered. No matter what, I had to get Puja out of the house.)
Me:
“Jaan, tum bata rahi thi na ki Kolkata mein tumhari ek dost hai. Wahan ghoom aao. Dost se mulaqat ho jayegi, aur akele bhi nahi rahogi.”
Puja:
“Thik hai… dekhti hoon.”
Me:
“Achha jaan, main chalta hoon. Tum dost se baat kar lena. Friday ko main tumhein wahan chhod dunga.”
I kissed Puja and left for the office.
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