Adultery Husband's mistake -Wife's bang bang

[Suresh@123]

The days that followed that first shattering night in Gupta’s mansion blurred into a rhythm of servitude,

simmering rage, and carefully hidden calculation for Athidhi and Kamal. The sprawling South Mumbai estate,

with its marble corridors echoing the distant crash of the Arabian Sea, had swallowed them whole. Kamal

was relegated to the servants’ wing—a narrow, windowless room beside the kitchen where he slept on a thin

mattress and woke at dawn to scrub floors, polish silver, and fold the very sheets stained with his wife’s

surrender. Athidhi, meanwhile, was installed as Gupta’s live-in trophy: her clothes hung in his walk-in closet,

her body oiled and perfumed each evening, the delicate gold hip chain with its silver bells locked around her

hips like a permanent brand. The black-beaded mangalsutra still hung between her heavy breasts, a mocking

reminder of the marriage Gupta had shattered.

But beneath the surface, something had shifted. The haze of dread that had clouded their first forty-eight

hours began to clear into cold, calculating clarity. Athidhi moved through the mansion like a ghost in silk—

smiling demurely when Gupta snapped his fingers, dropping to her knees without hesitation, yet her mind

was a steel trap, cataloguing every detail. Kamal, his eyes hollow but no longer dead, watched her from the

shadows during the endless humiliations and felt the first spark of shared purpose flicker between them.

They were no longer just puppets. They were waiting.


The routine began simply enough. Mornings started at six. Kamal would rise first, brewing strong filter coffee

for the household staff and carrying a tray to the master suite. There, he would find Athidhi already awake,

curled against Gupta’s bare chest under the crimson sheets, her body marked with faint love-bites and dried

cum from the night before. She would meet Kamal’s gaze for one fleeting second—long enough to pass a

silent message—before lowering her eyes. “Good morning, sir,” she would whisper to Gupta, voice husky from

hours of moaning. Gupta would stir, slap her ass playfully, and order her to shower while Kamal changed the

sheets. Sometimes Rahul lounged nearby, stretching his massive frame, smirking as he watched Kamal’s

trembling hands smooth the fabric still warm from three bodies. And then there was Shailaja—Gupta’s wife of

fifteen years, a stunning 42-year-old woman with sharp cheekbones, full lips, and a body that curved like a

weapon in her silk nighties. She never slept in the master suite on those nights; instead, she watched from

the velvet chaise, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement as she sipped morning tea, already planning how

she would join the evening’s games.

By seven, the household chores began in earnest. Athidhi, dressed in a simple cotton salwar suit that clung

to her oiled curves, helped the maids in the kitchen—chopping vegetables, stirring dal, arranging fresh

flowers in crystal vases. Gupta demanded perfection; she delivered it with a grace that made the staff

whisper in awe. Kamal scrubbed the infinity pool tiles on his hands and knees, the sea breeze stinging the

sweat on his back, while Rahul occasionally strolled by to “supervise,” cracking jokes about how the cuckold’s

place was on the floor. Shailaja would glide through the halls in flowing kaftans, issuing orders with a velvet

voice that hid steel. But in those quiet moments between tasks, Athidhi and Kamal found ways to brush past

each other. A whispered word in the pantry. A folded note slipped into his lungi pocket while she served

lunch. “Tonight,” it would say. “Servants’ quarters. After midnight.”


And every few days, the real test came. Gupta would announce, “Athidhi, you’re coming to the office with me

today.” She would nod obediently, dbang a modest dupatta over her low-cut blouse, and slide into the back

of the Mercedes beside him. The drive through Mumbai’s chaotic streets gave her the first taste of freedom—

and opportunity. Gupta’s empire was vast: real estate, shipping, hotels, offshore accounts. He treated her like

arm candy at first, but her sharp mind soon proved useful. “Handle the Singapore deal paperwork,” he’d bark

during meetings. Athidhi would sit at the glass conference table in his penthouse office overlooking Marine

Drive, her manicured fingers flying over the laptop he casually left unlocked while he took calls. She was

efficient—brilliant, even. Within a week, he trusted her with more: sorting emails, cross-checking ledgers,

even logging into his secure portals when his own fingers were too impatient.


She memorised everything. User IDs typed in plain sight. Passwords glimpsed over his shoulder

—“GuptaEmpire2024!” scribbled on a sticky note he thought she hadn’t seen. Property deeds in her name

now, too—hidden clauses she discovered while “organising” files. Bank routing numbers. Offshore shell

companies in Singapore and Dubai. And Shailaja—Gupta’s wife, who co-signed every major account and held

the keys to the Kerala black-money vaults. Athidhi noted every detail, her heart pounding beneath the

mangalsutra as she forwarded innocuous-looking summaries to a secret Gmail draft folder she accessed

from the office Wi-Fi. Gupta never suspected. To him, she was just the perfect whore: obedient in bed,

competent in the boardroom. Shailaja, when she occasionally dropped by the office, would smile knowingly

at Athidhi, as if sensing the hidden fire but never imagining it could burn them.


Nights were when the mask slipped. After the household slept, Athidhi would slip from Gupta’s bed—naked

except for the hip chain and mangalsutra—pad barefoot through the marble halls, and creep into Kamal’s tiny

room. The first time, he pulled her into his arms without a word, tears streaming down his face as the bells

tinkled softly. “We can’t keep living like this,” he whispered, voice cracking. Athidhi pressed her forehead to

his, her body still scented with Gupta’s cologne, Rahul’s sweat, and Shailaja’s perfume. “We won’t,” she

replied fiercely. “I have everything. Passwords. Properties. The fake murder case he built against you—it’s all

digital. We trap him permanently this time. No escape. No mercy. And Shailaja… she’s in it too. Joint

accounts, everything.”

They talked for hours in those stolen nights, voices low, bodies pressed together for warmth and courage.

Kamal’s hands would roam her curves instinctively—tracing the hip chain, cupping her breasts—before he

stopped himself. “Not like this,” he’d murmur. “Not until we’re free.” But the plan solidified: gather irrefutable

proof of the frame-up, hack the empire dry, transfer everything to anonymous accounts they would control

through a third party. Revenge, total and final.

Gupta and Shailaja would lose it all—money, freedom, power—while they walked away rich and untouchable.

Athidhi’s eyes burned with purpose even as she kissed Kamal’s forehead. “I’ll endure anything for this.

Anything. Even when all three of them take me.”


And endure she did.



The sex only grew more relentless, now a full symphony of three tormentors. Gupta, Rahul, and Shailaja

turned the master bedroom into a playground of exquisite torture and ecstasy on alternate nights. They had

made it a ritual: every other evening, the three of them would converge on Athidhi like predators circling

prey, using her body for hours with vibrators, toys, fingers, tongues, and cocks until she was a sobbing,

squirting, broken mess of pleasure and humiliation. Kamal always watched from the corner chair, silent,

unmoving, as ordered.


The first such night came on a humid Thursday. Gupta had returned from the office with Rahul and Shailaja in

tow, all three already buzzing with wine. They found Athidhi waiting exactly as commanded—kneeling naked

in the centre of the crimson bed, hip chain jingling softly, mangalsutra swaying between her heavy, oiled

breasts, the sheer black saree from the island dbangd loosely over her shoulders like a tease.












The room smelled of rose oil and anticipation.


“Tonight, puppet, you serve all three of us,” Gupta announced, voice thick with lust. Shailaja smiled wickedly,

shedding her kaftan to reveal a toned body in black lace lingerie that hugged her full breasts and flared hips.

Rahul stood like a sculpted god, already shirtless, his massive chest rising and falling. “Let’s break her slowly,”

Shailaja purred, her voice silk over steel. “I want to hear her beg while her husband watches.”

They started with sensory overload. Gupta and Rahul lifted Athidhi onto the four-poster bed, spreading her

legs wide and tying her ankles to the posts with soft silk ropes. Shailaja straddled her face first, lowering her

lace-covered pussy onto Athidhi’s mouth. “Lick me properly, whore,” she commanded, grinding down.

Athidhi’s tongue darted out obediently, tasting the older woman’s musky sweetness through the fabric, the

hip chain bells ringing as her body trembled. Meanwhile, Gupta knelt between her thighs, sliding a thick,

ridged vibrating dildo deep into her already slick pussy—eight inches of relentless buzzing that stretched her

walls and pressed mercilessly against her G-spot. He twisted it slowly, in and out, while Rahul attached a

powerful wand vibrator to her swollen clit, taping it in place on maximum speed.


Athidhi’s moans were muffled against Shailaja’s pussy. “Mmmph… oh god… it’s too much…”










Shailaja laughed and yanked the saree pallu away, pinching Athidhi’s nipples hard, twisting them until they

stood dark and aching. “Look at her, Kamal,” Gupta growled without turning. “Your wife’s tongue is buried in

my wife’s cunt while we fuck her holes with toys. She’s dripping for it.” The wand buzzed mercilessly; the

dildo pistoned faster. Athidhi’s hips bucked wildly, bells jingling like frantic chimes. Her first orgasm hit in

under two minutes—back arching off the bed, a muffled scream vibrating through Shailaja’s body as clear

squirt sprayed around the dildo, soaking Gupta’s hand and the sheets.


They didn’t stop. Shailaja slid off her face, replaced the lace panties with her bare, shaved pussy, forcing

Athidhi to suck her clit while Rahul replaced the dildo with his own thick cock. He slammed in deep,

pounding in time with the wand still taped to her clit. Gupta straddled her chest, feeding his cock between

her lips alongside Shailaja’s grinding. “Three of us owning every hole,” he groaned. Athidhi’s world became

pure sensation—cock in her mouth, cock in her pussy, clit on fire, nipples pinched raw by Shailaja’s sharp

nails. Her moans turned into continuous wails: “AHHH… SIR… MEMSAAB… RAHUL SIR… I’M CUMMING AGAIN…

PLEASE… AHHHHHAAAA!” She squirted twice more, body convulsing so hard the ropes creaked.










They untied her only to reposition. Now on all fours, facing the mirrored wall so she could see her own

degradation but never look at Kamal. Shailaja lay beneath her in a 69 position, sucking Athidhi’s clit with

expert tongue flicks while pushing a string of thick vibrating anal beads deep into her ass—one by one, each

larger than the last. Gupta took her pussy from behind, long deliberate strokes that ground against the beads

through the thin wall. Rahul knelt in front, forcing his massive cock down her throat until she gagged and

drooled. The toys buzzed at full power; the three of them moved in perfect, cruel rhythm. Shailaja’s tongue

swirled faster, Gupta’s hips slapped wetly, Rahul’s hands gripped her hair. Athidhi’s screams were hoarse and

endless: “BOTH HOLES… YOUR WIFE IS SUCKING ME… I’M BREAKING… AAGHHHH… CUMMING… AGAIN… OH

FUCK… I CAN HEAR KAMAL… I’M SORRY… I’M YOURS… ALL THREE OF YOU… FOREVER… AHHHHHAAAA!”


They edged her mercilessly for nearly two hours—bringing her to the brink six times, then stopping the toys

or pulling out just as she tipped over, leaving her sobbing and begging. “Please… let me cum… I’ll do

anything… fuck me harder… use me…” Only when her voice cracked did Gupta finally command, “Cum for your

owners, puppet. Loud. Let your husband hear how three people own you now.” The simultaneous assault—

Gupta flooding her pussy, Rahul shooting down her throat, Shailaja sucking her clit while the anal beads

vibrated at max—sent Athidhi into the most shattering orgasm of her life. She screamed so loudly the

soundproofed walls seemed to shake: “AAGHHHHH… I’M SQUIRTING… FOR ALL OF YOU… OH GOD… I’M YOUR

WHORE… AHHHHHAAAAA!” Her body convulsed violently, clear fluid gushing in arcs, soaking Shailaja’s face

and the bed. The hip chain bells rang wildly with every spasm.


They kept going. Round after round. Shailaja riding her face while Gupta and Rahul double-penetrated her

with cocks and a thick double-ended dildo. Rahul using a fucking machine on her ass at brutal speed while

Shailaja and Gupta took turns making her suck their combined juices off their fingers. Vibrators taped to her

nipples, a suction toy on her clit, until she came so many times she lost count—eight, nine, ten—each one

wetter, louder, more broken. By the time they finally finished, painting her body with cum—Gupta on her

breasts, Rahul across her belly, Shailaja making her lick her to another orgasm—Athidhi was a trembling,

sweat-drenched wreck, voice hoarse, pussy and ass throbbing, mind floating in subspace. Yet through it all,

her eyes never once strayed to Kamal. The shame burned, but so did the secret fire of revenge.










Ten days into their new life, the perfect opening arrived.

It was a Friday night. Gupta had hosted a lavish dinner for business associates—imported whiskey flowing like

water. By eleven, he was heavily drunk, eyes glassy, laughter booming as he dragged Athidhi, Rahul, and

Shailaja upstairs. Kamal was already in position in the corner chair. Gupta pushed Athidhi onto the bed, but

tonight the three of them were too intoxicated for full games. Shailaja and Rahul lounged on the chaise,

watching lazily as Gupta ripped away her sheer red saree.


“My smart little slut handled that Singapore contract like a pro today,” he slurred, pouring himself another

glass of 30-year-old scotch. “Here—drink with me.” She sipped obediently, letting the alcohol loosen him

further. Gupta climbed over her, cock already hard, and thrust into her slick pussy without preamble. The

fucking was sloppy but brutal—deep, pounding strokes that made the bed creak and her moans echo. “You’re

mine forever now,” he grunted between thrusts, wine breath hot on her neck. “That pathetic husband of

yours… I framed him perfectly. Fake witnesses, planted evidence on that murder file. One call and he’s gone.

But why would I? Keeps you obedient, doesn’t it?” He laughed drunkenly, hips slamming harder. “The

commissioner owes me. Whole case is digital—encrypted folder on my phone. ‘KamalMurderSetup.exe’.

Password same as my main account. GuptaEmpire2024! Shailaja knows everything—she helped plant the

witnesses. Laughable how easy it was to trap that fool.”


Athidhi moaned louder to cover the sound of her racing heart. “Yes, sir… fuck me harder… I’m your whore…

and memsaab’s too…” While he pounded away, lost in drunken lust, she reached blindly for his discarded

trousers on the floor. Her fingers closed around his phone. Screen already unlocked. She opened the voice

recorder app with one trembling thumb, hit record, and slid the phone under the pillow. Gupta kept ranting

between grunts—“I own the evidence… own you… Shailaja owns half the accounts… we own everything…”—as

he flipped her onto all fours and took her from behind, one hand yanking the hip chain like reins. The bells

jingled madly. Rahul and Shailaja watched, chuckling, occasionally reaching over to pinch her nipples or slap

her ass. Athidhi’s screams of pleasure were real—raw, shattering orgasms that soaked the sheets—but her

mind was ice-cold. She let the phone record every filthy confession, every detail of the fake case, every slur

about Kamal, every mention of Shailaja’s involvement.


He came with a roar, flooding her pussy, then collapsed beside her, snoring within minutes. Shailaja and

Rahul soon followed suit on the chaise. Athidhi waited until their breathing deepened, slipped the phone

free, stopped the recording, and forwarded the entire audio file to her secret draft folder. She deleted the app

history, wiped herleaving strict orders: Athidhi was to wait naked in the master suite, toys ready for their

return. But she had other plans. She dressed quickly in a plain black salwar suit, mangalsutra tucked away,

and slipped out through the servants’ entrance while Kamal distracted the maids with a fabricated

emergency in the kitchen. A black-and-yellow taxi waited two blocks away—arranged via a burner app.


Her destination: a quiet café in Bandra. There, sitting in the corner booth, was Nisha—her childhood friend

from the old days. Nisha, now a renowned ethical hacker who consulted for banks and NGOs, looked exactly

as Athidhi remembered: sharp-eyed, short-cropped hair, simple jeans and kurti, a laptop bag slung over one

shoulder. They hugged fiercely, tears pricking Athidhi’s eyes for the first time in weeks.


“You look… different,” Nisha whispered, scanning her friend’s face. Athidhi didn’t waste time. Over two cups

of filter coffee, she poured out everything—the blackmail, the mansion, the endless nights of being used by

Gupta, Rahul, and Shailaja, the passwords, the properties, the recorded confession about the fake murder

case on Kamal. She slid a USB drive across the table containing the audio file, copied bank details (including

Shailaja’s joint accounts and Kerala vault codes), property deeds, and every scrap of information she’d

gathered. “Shailaja—his wife—controls half of it. She’s in on everything. Here’s everything. I need you to hack

it all. Transfer the liquid assets to these offshore accounts I set up under fake identities. Drain the rest. Make

it look like an inside job—maybe Shailaja turning on him out of greed. Leave just enough traces to point at

their own corruption. Permanent solution, Nisha. We destroy all three of them completely.”

Nisha’s eyes widened, but she didn’t flinch. “This is dangerous, Athidhi. But for you? For what they’ve done?”

She pocketed the USB. “I’ll start tonight. Give me forty-eight hours. The properties will be ghosted—titles

transferred to shell companies you control. Banks wiped—his and Shailaja’s. By the time they realise, they’ll

be penniless and the murder file will be public domain, sent anonymously to every newspaper and the

commissioner’s personal email. You and Kamal walk free. Rich. Safe.”


Athidhi squeezed her hand. “Thank you. I’ll endure two more nights. Then we end it.”



That night, as ordered, she waited naked on the bed—vibrators laid out like weapons, hip chain jingling softly.

Gupta, Rahul, and Shailaja returned triumphant from golf, already half-drunk. They used every toy on her with

savage glee: Shailaja strapping on a thick dildo and taking her ass while Gupta pounded her pussy in double

penetration, Rahul forcing his cock down her throat and a wand vibrator taped to her clit. Her orgasms were

shattering—“AHHHHHAAAA… SIR… MEMSAAB… RAHUL SIR… BOTH HOLES AND MY MOUTH… I’M BREAKING…

AGAIN… OH FUCK!”—body convulsing, bells ringing like a storm. She bore every thrust, every degrading word,

every load of cum painted across her breasts, face, and inside her. Kamal watched from the corner, his own

pain now laced with fierce pride. They were almost free.

The next forty-eight hours were exquisite torture. The three of them fucked her in the office during lunch—

Shailaja joining via video call at first, then surprising them by arriving early, all three using her on the desk

with toys buzzing while Gupta took calls. By the pool at sunrise, Rahul and Gupta holding her down while

Shailaja used waterproof vibrators until she screamed into the sea breeze. She endured it all with moans that

sounded more broken than ever, but inside, victory hummed like the hip chain’s bells.











On the morning of the third day, Gupta’s phone exploded with notifications while he was still buried inside

her, Shailaja and Rahul watching from the bed. Accounts frozen. Properties seized. Shailaja’s “betrayal”

splashed across every business channel. The murder file? Leaked. security officer sirens wailed at the gates by noon.

Gupta staggered back from the bedroom, face ashen. “What the fuck—”

Athidhi stood in the doorway, fully dressed for the first time in weeks, Kamal beside her. The hip chain was

gone—snapped off and thrown into the sea that morning. The mangalsutra still hung around her neck, but

now it was a symbol of survival, not shame.

“You thought we were puppets forever,” she said calmly, voice steady. “But puppets cut their own strings.

And your wife helped tie them—now she’ll rot with you.”

Rahul tried to move; Kamal’s fist connected first. The mansion, once a prison, now echoed with the sound of

justice.


By evening, Gupta, Rahul, and Shailaja were in custody. Athidhi and Kamal walked out hand in hand, the

offshore accounts already swelling with everything the trio had stolen. The suburban flat was gone, but a new

life waited—quiet, rich, free while they faces then Athidhi told yo Gupta yes your done us so bad and deceived

us from island...... This is best example for Tit for tat.... And Kamal and Athidhi laughed and said them

goodbye.... Later both couple happily lived....they moved to other city 

and piece fully lived with a baby... And

Forget everything happened in past.... Athidhi forget that past as a 

bad dream and lead happy life. 




Ultimately Athidhi and Kamal both won.......



                                ******The End*******