Adultery Husband's mistake -Wife's bang bang

[Suresh@123]

Thank you all


That night, Gupta couldn't sleep. The betrayal burned in his chest like acid, every word from Athidhi's

mocking phone call replaying in his mind. He paced the study, the Mumbai skyline mocking him with its

indifferent glow. Shailaja had slunk off to bed, her body still carrying the evidence of her infidelity, but Gupta's

rage wasn't just at her—it was at them. Kamal and Athidhi, the smug couple who thought they could toy with

his marriage, his pride, his empire. He was no ordinary man; as one of Mumbai's most influential real estate

tycoons, with ties to politicians, bureaucrats, and the underworld, Gupta had built his fortune on knowing

how to crush obstacles. And now, Kamal and Athidhi were obstacles.

By dawn, he had a plan. It wasn't impulsive; it was surgical. He'd dismantle their lives piece by piece, starting

with what they valued most: their careers, their security, their freedom. He'd make them beg, just as they'd

made him feel small. And then, he'd break them completely—both couples, until no one was left unscathed.

First, Kamal's software empire. Kamal ran a thriving IT firm, specializing in cybersecurity for high-profile

clients—banks, corporations, even government contracts. Gupta had been the one to introduce him to half

those clients, back when they were "partners." A few discreet calls to his contacts in the Ministry of

Electronics and IT, and whispers of data breaches and embezzlement began circulating. By noon the next

day, an anonymous tip led to a raid on Kamal's office. Auditors swarmed in, seizing servers and files. Kamal's

biggest client, a multinational bank, pulled out immediately, citing "security concerns." The stock of his

publicly traded subsidiary plummeted 40% in hours. Kamal was left scrambling, his phone blowing up with

panicked calls from investors.

Gupta watched it unfold from his penthouse office, a satisfied smirk on his face as he sipped black coffee. But

he wasn't done. Next, Athidhi's interior design boutique. She catered to Mumbai's elite—bollywood stars,

industrialists—with her sleek, modern aesthetic. Gupta knew her secrets; she'd confided once about cutting

corners on imported materials to boost profits. He fed that intel to a rival designer with ties to customs

officials. Within days, her shipments were held at the port, accused of smuggling undervalued luxury goods.

Clients bailed, scandals erupted in the gossip columns: "Athidhi Designs: Style Over Substance? Fraud

Allegations Surface." Her studio, once buzzing with assistants and mood boards, emptied out. She was

blacklisted from key events, her reputation in tatters.


But Gupta's real power play was the property. Kamal and Athidhi's high-rise apartment in South Mumbai

was their crown jewel, bought with loans backed by Gupta's own endorsements. He pulled strings with his

political allies—a minister owed him for campaign funding—and zoning violations were "discovered." The

building's permits were revoked retroactively, citing environmental lapses. Bailiffs arrived with eviction

notices, sealing the doors. Their furniture, their art collection, even Athidhi's precious antique vases—seized

and auctioned off to "cover fines." The couple was forced into a dingy rental in the suburbs, their luxurious life

reduced to cardboard boxes and shared walls with noisy neighbors.

As the weeks dragged on, Gupta escalated. He fabricated a "deceiving" case—accusing Kamal of falsifying

documents in a joint venture they'd once discussed. Lawyers on Gupta's payroll filed charges, twisting old

emails into evidence of fraud. The security officer, greased with bribes, arrested Kamal at dawn, hauling him away in

handcuffs while Athidhi watched in horror from the doorway. Bail was denied; Gupta's judge friend saw to

that. Ten years minimum, the prosecutor thundered in court, for defrauding investors.

And then, the coup de grâce: a murder case. Gupta didn't flinch from the darkness. He planted evidence—

hired thugs to stage a hit-and-run linked to Kamal's car, using a body double and forged CCTV footage. The

victim? A low-level informant who'd crossed Gupta years ago; no one would miss him. The charges stuck:

vehicular manslaughter, upgraded to murder when "witnesses" claimed Kamal had argued with the man

earlier. Life sentence loomed.

It was time to gloat. Gupta dialed Athidhi from his study, the same room where he'd shattered his phone

weeks before. She answered on the first ring, her voice ragged, broken.

"Hello?" No more lazy arrogance; just raw desperation.

"Athidhi," Gupta purred, leaning back in his leather chair. "How's life in the suburbs? I hear the view's not quite

the same."

She sucked in a breath. "You... you monster. What have you done?"

He laughed, deep and triumphant. "Tit for tat, darling. You laughed at me, humiliated me. Now look at you—

broke, evicted, your husband rotting in a cell. And it's only beginning. Tomorrow, I file the murder charges

officially. Kamal will never see daylight again. Ten years for fraud? That's nothing. Life for murder. Your perfect

little world? Shattered."

Athidhi wept then, sobs choking through the line. "No, please... Gupta, don't. We were wrong, I admit it. I was

cruel, but this... this is destroying us. Kamal's innocent! Please, I'll do anything. Anything to stop this."

Gupta's pulse quickened. This was the moment he'd waited for—the power shift, the begging. "Anything? Oh,

Athidhi, you have no idea what that means. But fine. It depends on you. How well you please me. Be at my

office in an hour. Alone. Dress like the whore you are."

She hesitated, but the line went silent. An hour later, the elevator dinged, and Athidhi stepped into Gupta's

opulent office overlooking the Arabian Sea. She wore a sheer black saree that clung to her curves, the blouse

low-cut, revealing the swell of her full breasts. No bra, he noted with approval—her nipples hardened against

the fabric from the air conditioning or nerves. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were red-rimmed,

defeated.









host portfolio images



Gupta stood behind his desk, arms crossed. "On your knees," he commanded, voice like steel.


Athidhi dropped without protest, the marble floor cold against her skin. She crawled forward, her saree

pooling around her, until she knelt at his feet. "Please, Gupta... save Kamal."

He unzipped his trousers, freeing his hardening cock. It was thick, veined, already throbbing at the sight of

her submission. "Suck it. Show me how sorry you are."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she leaned in, her soft lips parting to take him in. Gupta groaned,

tangling his fingers in her silky hair, guiding her deeper. She gagged slightly, but he didn't relent, thrusting

into her mouth with deliberate slowness. "That's it, you bitch. Remember how you mocked me? Now you're

choking on my dick like the slut you are."

Athidhi worked him with desperate fervor, her tongue swirling around the head, her hands cupping his balls.

Saliva dripped down her chin, mixing with tears, as she bobbed her head. Gupta watched, his anger fueling

his arousal. He pulled out suddenly, slapping her face lightly with his wet shaft. "Strip. Show me everything."

She rose shakily, unwrapping the saree to reveal her naked body beneath—no panties, just smooth, waxed

skin and the faint tan lines from their island trips. Her pussy was already glistening, betraying her body's

response despite the humiliation. Gupta stepped forward, pinning her against the desk. His hands roamed

roughly—squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples until she whimpered.

"You liked fucking my wife, didn't you?" he growled, sliding two fingers into her slick folds. She was wet,

clenching around him. "Admit it."

"Yes," she gasped, hips bucking involuntarily. "I... I loved it."

He finger-fucked her hard, his thumb circling her clit. Athidhi moaned, her body arching, but he stopped just

as she neared the edge. "Not yet. Bend over."

She obeyed, dbanging herself over the desk, ass up. Gupta admired the view—her round cheeks, the pink slit

peeking between. He spanked her once, hard, leaving a red mark. "This is for laughing at me." Another slap.

"This for touching Shailaja." He entered her in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Athidhi cried out,

a mix of pain and pleasure, her walls gripping him tightly.

Gupta fucked her relentlessly, his hips slamming against her ass. The office filled with the wet sounds of skin

on skin, her moans growing louder. "Beg for it," he demanded, pulling her hair back.

"Please... fuck me harder," she sobbed. "I'll do anything... just save him."

He flipped her onto her back, spreading her legs wide. Pinning her wrists above her head, he drove into her

again, his free hand rubbing her clit. Athidhi came hard, her body convulsing, squirting onto the desk as she

screamed his name. Gupta followed, pulling out to cum across her stomach and breasts, marking her.

But he wasn't satisfied. "Clean up. We're not done."

That night, Gupta brought Athidhi home—to the flat he shared with Shailaja. His wife was waiting, dressed in

a silk robe, her expression a mix of shock and arousal as Gupta pushed Athidhi inside.

"What's this?" Shailaja asked, eyes widening.

"Revenge," Gupta said simply. "And redemption. Athidhi's here to please us both. Aren't you?"

Athidhi nodded meekly, still disheveled from the office encounter. Gupta poured whiskey for all, the tension

thick. "Strip her, Shailaja. Show me you choose me."

Shailaja hesitated, but the fire in Gupta's eyes—and the lingering thrill from her own adventures—pushed her

forward. She approached Athidhi, slowly peeling off the remnants of her clothes. Athidhi stood passive, her

body on display: full breasts heaving, pussy still swollen from earlier.

"Kiss her," Gupta ordered, settling into an armchair to watch.


Shailaja leaned in, their lips meeting tentatively at first, then deepening. Athidhi's hands roamed Shailaja's

back, slipping under the robe to cup her ass. Soon, they were tangled on the sofa, Shailaja's robe discarded.

Gupta stroked himself as he watched his wife straddle Athidhi's face, grinding against her tongue. Shailaja

moaned, her hands pinching Athidhi's nipples, riding her to orgasm.

But Gupta joined in, pulling Shailaja off and positioning Athidhi on all fours. "Fuck her mouth while I take her

ass," he told his wife.

Shailaja, aroused beyond reason, grabbed a strap-on from the drawer—a toy she'd hidden for her secret

trysts. She buckled it on, sliding the silicone cock into Athidhi's mouth. Gupta lubed up and eased into

Athidhi's tight ass, groaning at the heat. They spit-roasted her, Athidhi's muffled cries vibrating around the

dildo. Gupta thrust deep, spanking her as he went, while Shailaja face-fucked her with abandon.

"You're ours now," Gupta grunted, close to the edge. "No more games."













Athidhi came again, her body shaking, as Gupta filled her ass with his cum. Shailaja pulled out, spraying her

own release from the friction.

The breaking continued over hours. Gupta dropped the murder charge but kept the fraud looming as

leverage. Kamal was released on bail,

Orgasms crashed like waves—Athidhi squirting on Gupta's cock. Gupta marking both women with his seed.


One night, as Athidhi knelt between Gupta's legs, slurping his cock while Shailaja whipped her ass lightly,

Gupta leaned back. "Tit for tat," he murmured, laughing. The power was his, and the pleasure endless.











Gupta threatened athidhi we just given him bail. If you not accepted to our proposals again he will be


punished...... You have to our personal slut... And from now you have to follow my orders then She replied with tears

OK...


To be continued........