Adultery Husband's mistake -Wife's bang bang

[Suresh@123]

silky hair, Athidi lips glistening with saliva and the remnants of his release, when he decided the

night’s entertainment needed one final, exquisite layer. Shailaja’s whip had left faint, blushing stripes across

Athidhi’s rounded ass, but the real sting would come later. He pulled her head back gently, forcing her to

meet his eyes. The room smelled of sex, whiskey, and expensive cologne. Athidhi’s chest heaved, her full

breasts rising and falling, nipples still stiff from Shailaja’s earlier attentions.

“Next Wednesday night,” Gupta said, his voice low and velvet-smooth, like a promise wrapped in steel, “I will

come to your little suburban flat. I will walk straight into your bedroom—the same bed where you once

whispered ‘I love you’ to Kamal. And I will fuck you there, slowly, thoroughly, while your husband sits in the

corner and watches every single second. Do you understand me, Athidhi?”

Her eyes widened, the haze of submission clearing into raw panic. She shook her head slightly, still on her

knees. “Sir… please… not in front of him. I’ll come to your office every single day. I’ll let Shailaja madam tie me

up, whip me, use me however she wants. I’ll crawl to you on my hands and knees in public if you command it.

But not in front of Kamal. He’s already broken. Seeing me like that… in our own bed… it will kill whatever is left

of him.”

Gupta chuckled softly, tracing her lower lip with his thumb. “Oh, my sweet, desperate whore. You still think

you have the right to negotiate? I said in front of Kamal. And there will be a surprise waiting for both of you—

something deliciously familiar. Refuse, and the murder charge files tomorrow morning. Kamal spends the rest

of his life rotting in a cell while you visit him once a month in a faded saree. Choose wisely.”

Athidhi’s shoulders slumped. Tears welled up again, but she nodded. “Yes, sir. Wednesday. Our bedroom. I…

I’ll be ready.”

He patted her cheek like a pet. “Good girl. Now crawl back to Shailaja and thank her properly for the marks

she gave you.”



The rest of that night blurred into more tangled limbs and whispered commands, but Athidhi’s mind had

already left the penthouse. She kept replaying his words, the casual cruelty, the promise of a “surprise.”

It was nearly 3 a.m. when the elevator deposited her back into the dingy corridor of their suburban flat. The

building smelled of cheap curry and damp walls. Kamal was waiting exactly where she had left him—on the

threadbare sofa, still in the same vest and lungi, eyes hollow. The moment she closed the door, she sank to

her knees in front of him, the sheer black saree clinging to her sweat-damp skin, the faint scent of Gupta’s

cologne and Shailaja’s perfume clinging to her like guilt.

She told him everything. Every word. The exact order. The insistence on their marital bed. The mysterious

surprise. Kamal listened without interrupting, his hands clenched so tightly the knuckles went white. When

she finished, silence stretched between them like a blade.

“We have no choice,” he whispered finally, voice cracking. “If we run, he’ll destroy us again. If we refuse…” He

couldn’t finish. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, and they clung to each other on the sofa, two broken

people trying to hold onto the last fragments of dignity. That night they didn’t make love. They simply held

each other, trembling.

The next six days were exquisite torture.

Every morning Athidhi woke with a knot in her stomach. She dressed for her now-empty design studio in

simple salwar suits, but her mind kept drifting to Wednesday. She imagined Kamal’s face, the way his eyes

would hollow further.



At night she showered for hours, scrubbing herself raw, yet every time she closed her e

yes she felt Gupta’s hands, Rahul’s muscular body from the island memories.

Kamal barely ate. He sat in their tiny living room staring at the wall, replaying the island trip again and again—

the way Rahul, Gupta’s young, powerfully built assistant manager, had taken Athidhi so casually while they all

watched. He knew, deep in his gut, who the “surprise” would be. But knowing didn’t prepare the heart.

By Tuesday night they were both exhausted. Athidhi cried silently in the bathroom so he wouldn’t hear.

Kamal stared at the ceiling, wondering if he would be able to sit there without dying inside.

Wednesday arrived, thick with Mumbai humidity. The clock on their bedroom wall read 8:15 p.m. Athidhi had

prepared exactly as Gupta liked: a deep maroon chiffon saree dbangd low on her hips, the pallu barely

covering her heavy breasts. The blouse was backless, tied with thin strings, no bra, no panties. Her

mangalsutra—the sacred black-beaded gold chain that symbolized her marriage—hung prominently between

her cleavage, the pendant resting just above her navel. She had oiled her skin until it glowed, applied kajal to

make her eyes look larger, and left her long hair open the way Gupta preferred.







The hip chain she knew he would bring would complete the humiliation.


Kamal sat on the edge of their double bed in just a thin vest and lungi, staring at the floor. The room was

small—barely enough space for the bed, a rickety cupboard, and a single chair. The cheap ceiling fan whirred lazily.

At 8:30 sharp, the doorbell rang once.

Athidhi’s heart slammed against her ribs. She opened the door with shaking fingers.

Gupta stood there in a crisp white linen shirt and tailored trousers, looking every inch the untouchable

tycoon. Beside him loomed Rahul—six-foot-two of raw, sculpted muscle. His black polo shirt strained across

boulder-like shoulders and thick biceps. His dark skin gleamed under the corridor’s cheap bulb, and his jeans

did nothing to hide the powerful thighs or the obvious bulge. The same Rahul who had fucked her senseless

on the island while Kamal had been forced to listen from the next room. Rahul’s dark eyes locked onto

Athidhi with immediate, hungry recognition.

Both husband and wife froze in the doorway.

Gupta smiled that slow, predatory smile. “Surprise,” he said softly, stepping inside without waiting for

invitation. Rahul followed, closing and locking the door behind them with a quiet click. “I thought we should

make this reunion special. Rahul has been asking about your tight little married pussy every single day since

the island. He says you still moan the same way.”

Kamal’s face twisted—rage, shame, helplessness all crashing together. Athidhi’s knees nearly gave out; she

had to grip the doorframe.

Gupta didn’t waste time. He walked straight into the bedroom as if he owned it, the same room where Kamal

and Athidhi had once planned their future. He snapped his fingers at Athidhi. “Come here, my beautiful slut.”

She obeyed on trembling legs. Kamal remained seated on the bed, unable to move.

Gupta reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate gold hip chain—thin, intricately carved, with tiny

silver bells at intervals. He knelt slowly in front of her, right there in front of her husband, his face level with

her navel. With deliberate, almost reverent slowness, he wrapped the chain around her hips, just above the

low waistline of her saree. His warm fingers brushed her bare skin, sending involuntary shivers through her.

He fastened it securely, then leaned in and pressed his lips directly to her deep navel.







The kiss was not quick. He lingered. His tongue traced the rim of her navel in slow, wet circles, dipping inside

the hollow, tasting the faint salt of her skin. The tiny bells jingled softly with every tremor of her body.

Athidhi’s breath hitched; she bit her lip hard to stop a moan from escaping.

“Sir… please… not like this… in front of him,” she whispered, voice barely audible, face burning with shame.

Kamal looked away, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped, but his eyes kept darting back. His lungi

tented slightly despite everything.

Gupta stood up, still holding the end of the hip chain like a leash. He reached up and lifted her mangalsutra

with one finger, letting the black beads and gold pendant sway in front of her flushed face. “This sacred

thread that binds you to him? Tonight it means nothing. You are mine to display.” He let it fall back between

her breasts, the cool metal brushing her stiffening nipples through the thin blouse. The contrast—sacred

symbol against her whorish attire—made her thighs clench.

Rahul stepped forward now, his massive presence filling the small room. The two men began their slow,

deliberate seduction.

It started with touches so light they were almost cruel.

Gupta’s hands slid under the pallu of her saree, palms gliding over the soft, oiled skin of her belly. His thumbs

traced lazy circles just below her navel, making the hip chain tinkle with every breath she took. Rahul moved

behind her, his large, calloused hands resting lightly on her bare waist, thumbs stroking the dimples at the

base of her spine. They didn’t rush. They circled her like predators savoring the kill.






Gupta leaned in and brushed his lips along the side of her neck, not kissing, just breathing warm air against

her pulse point. “You smell like fear and arousal, Athidhi. Your husband can see how your nipples are already

poking through this tiny blouse.” His fingers found the edge of her pallu and slowly, inch by inch, pulled it

aside, exposing the deep valley of her cleavage. Rahul’s hands slid lower, cupping the curve of her ass

through the saree, squeezing gently, then releasing, then squeezing again—rhythmic, teasing.

Athidhi’s breathing grew ragged. Her body betrayed her; a fresh wave of wetness slicked her thighs. “Please…

sir… Rahul sir…” she whimpered.

Gupta’s mouth finally closed over the sensitive spot just below her ear, sucking softly, tongue flicking. At the

same time, Rahul’s thick fingers traced the cleft of her ass, pressing the fabric between her cheeks. They

peeled the saree off her body with agonizing slowness—first the pallu, letting it slide down her shoulders like

liquid, then unwrapping the yards of maroon fabric fold by fold. Each turn of the saree revealed more skin: the

soft swell of her hips, the smooth waxed mound, the faint tan lines from their island days.

When the saree finally pooled at her feet, she stood in only the backless blouse and the hip chain. Gupta

unfastened the blouse strings one by one, his knuckles deliberately brushing the sides of her breasts. Rahul

reached around from behind and cupped both heavy globes the moment they spilled free, lifting them,

weighing them, thumbs circling the dark, stiff nipples without touching the peaks yet.


Athidhi moaned low in her throat, hips jerking. The hip chain jingled. Her mangalsutra swayed between her

breasts as Rahul finally pinched both nipples—gently at first, then harder, rolling them between his strong

fingers. Gupta dropped to his knees again, this time kissing his way down her body: sternum, the underside

of each breast, her ribcage, the soft curve of her belly, until his mouth reached her navel once more. He

sucked on it deeply while Rahul continued tormenting her nipples.


They explored every inch.












Gupta’s tongue traced the line from her navel down to the top of her slit, stopping just short of her clit.

Rahul’s mouth replaced Gupta’s on her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark while his fingers finally

dipped between her thighs from behind. He stroked her slick outer lips slowly, parting them, circling her

entrance without entering, spreading her wetness up to her clit and back down again.

Athidhi’s legs shook violently. “Ahh… sir… I can’t… my husband is watching…”

Kamal sat frozen on the bed, eyes glued to the scene, shame and helpless arousal warring on his face.

The foreplay stretched on for nearly fifteen minutes—teasing touches, wet kisses, fingers gliding but never

quite giving her what she craved. They made her beg with every whimper. Gupta finally slid one finger inside

her, curling it slowly against her front wall while Rahul pinched her clit lightly. Athidhi’s first small orgasm

rippled through her, but they didn’t let her ride it; they pulled back, leaving her trembling on the edge.

“Please, sir,” she gasped, voice breaking completely. “Do anything you want to me… use every hole… make

me your whore… but send my husband outside. I can’t bear his eyes on me like this. Please… I’ll do anything.”

Gupta straightened, lips glistening with her juices. He glanced at Kamal, then back at her. “Beg properly. On

your knees.”

Athidhi dropped instantly, mangalsutra swaying, hip chain tinkling. “Gupta sir… Rahul sir… please send him

out. Fuck me senseless. Break me. Fill me. But not in front of him. I’ll scream for you. I’ll squirt for you. Just let

him wait outside.”

Gupta smiled. “You heard your wife, Kamal. Living room. Now. And don’t you dare leave the flat.”

Kamal stood on shaky legs, face burning, and walked out. The bedroom door clicked shut.

For ten long minutes there was only heavy breathing and the creak of the bed. Kamal sat on the sofa, heart

hammering. Then the sounds began.










The first moan tore through the thin walls like a blade. “Ohhhhhh… nooooo…” Athidhi’s voice, high and

broken. Then deeper, desperate: “I can’t take it… oh goddd… pls…”

Kamal crept back to the door and pressed his eye to the narrow gap.

Inside, the scene was pure depravity.

Athidhi was on her back on their marital bed, legs spread obscenely wide. Gupta was between them, his

thick, veined cock sliding in and out of her pussy in long, deliberate strokes—slow at first, letting her feel

every inch. Rahul knelt by her head, his massive nine-inch cock sliding between her swollen lips, fucking her

mouth with controlled depth. The hip chain jingled with every thrust. Her mangalsutra bounced between her

jiggling breasts.

Gupta angled his hips and hit her G-spot perfectly. Athidhi screamed around Rahul’s cock—her first powerful

squirt exploding around Gupta’s shaft, soaking the bedsheet and his thighs. Her body convulsed, eyes rolling back.









They didn’t stop.


Round one ended with Gupta flooding her pussy, pulling out slowly so Kamal could see the thick cream pie

dripping from her stretched hole. Rahul took his place immediately, flipping her onto all fours. He entered her

from behind in one smooth, deep thrust, his muscular hips slapping against her ass. Gupta fed her his cock

again, making her clean every drop of their mixed juices while Rahul pounded her relentlessly.

The second round was faster, harder. Rahul’s heavy balls slapped her clit with every thrust. Athidhi’s moans

turned into continuous wails: “Aaghhhh… ahhhhaa… ahhhhaa… too deep… my husband is right outside…

ohhhhh goddd…” Her second squirt sprayed across the mattress in an arc as Rahul repeatedly hit her cervix.

Gupta came down her throat this time, holding her head still until she swallowed every drop, tears streaming

down her face.

Still they continued.


Round three: double penetration. Gupta lay beneath her, cock buried deep in her pussy. Rahul, slick with her

own juices, pushed slowly into her tight ass, stretching her inch by inch while she whimpered and moaned.

They found a perfect rhythm—Gupta thrusting up, Rahul thrusting down. Athidhi’s screams echoed through

the entire flat—“Nooooo… I can’t… both holes at once… please… ohhhhh fuckkkk…” The hip chain and

mangalsutra were tangled and sticky between her breasts. She squirted a third time, then a fourth in quick

succession, her body shaking so violently the bedframe banged against the wall. Rahul filled her ass with a

deep groan; Gupta pumped her pussy full again.

For the final, merciless round they stood her up between them like a living doll. Gupta lifted one of her legs,

entering her pussy while standing. Rahul took her ass from behind. They fucked her suspended, feet off the

ground, bodies slick with sweat. Athidhi’s fifth and most explosive squirt shot out in a powerful arc, splashing

the floor as she screamed incoherently: “Ohhhhh… no more… I’m breaking… aaghhhh ahhhhaa… pls… my

husband… he can hear everything… I’m yours… I’m yours forever…”

Both men came together—one deep in her pussy, one in her ass—filling her until thick streams of cum ran

down her thighs in rivers. They lowered her gently onto the ruined bed. Athidhi lay there twitching, chest

heaving, body covered in sweat, cum, and her own squirt, the hip chain still jingling softly with every

aftershock, her mangalsutra sticky and tangled.

Gupta zipped up, looking utterly satisfied. Rahul flexed his massive arms and smirked. “Same time next

week?” he asked casually.

Gupta glanced toward the door. “Maybe next time we’ll let Kamal sit inside and hold her hand while we ruin

her. Or maybe we’ll make him clean her up with his tongue.”

He opened the bedroom door. Kamal stumbled back, face flushed crimson with humiliation and unwanted

arousal, cock straining painfully against his lungi.

“Enjoy the show, cuck?” Gupta asked coldly. “Your wife is ours now. Every Wednesday. And if you ever forget

that…” He left the threat hanging in the air.

Rahul patted Kamal’s shoulder with mock affection as they walked out. “She still squirts the same way she

did on the island. Good little married slut.”

The door shut behind them.

Inside the bedroom, Athidhi curled into a fetal position, tears mixing with the mess on her body. But beneath

the burning shame, her pussy still clenched rhythmically with the afterglow of five shattering orgasms.

Outside, Kamal sat on the sofa, the echoes of her desperate cries still replaying in his ears on an endless loop.



Tit for tat had become something far darker, far more permanent, and the slow seduction had only just

begun.....


To be continued.........