08-06-2026, 07:41 AM
As Soumya was contemplating the situation, her calling bell rang and there he was, her beloved Husband. She immediately hugged him and he was taken aback
"Seems like someone missed me a lot" he smirked stroking his male ego of having a loving wife. Little did he know she just cummed twice in the hands of a guy much younger and hotter than him.
"Come" she immediately started pulling him to the bedroom, her hands trying to slowly remove the shirt buttons.
She watched an adult video once where the lady pulls the guy and he immediately starts fucking her with a lot of speed. She wanted the same from her husband. She knew she did a mistake at the gym with Sharath but now she wanted to forget it by letting her husband tasting and using her.
Meanwhile her husband was both surprised and slightly amused. So she laughed probably thinking it was still affection and love to him and not some carnal pleasure. "Someone's impatient," he said, letting her undress him.
Suresh's shirt hit the floor before he could process the hunger in Soumya's eyes—dark and unfamiliar, like monsoon clouds heavy with unshed rain. Her fingers trembled against his belt buckle, fumbling in a way she never had in fifteen years of marriage. "Slow down," he laughed, catching her wrists. "What's gotten into you?"
The question hung between them, sharp as the mangalsutra digging into Soumya's collarbone. She blinked, Sharath's phantom touch still burning along her spine. "I just..." Her voice cracked. "I want you to *touch* me. Properly." The plea slipped out raw, stripped of the coyness she'd worn like a second sari.
Suresh's brows knit. He cupped her face—calloused palms, the scent of motor oil clinging to his cuticles. "I *do* touch you," he murmured, thumb brushing her cheekbone with the same tentative reverence as their wedding night. Soumya's stomach plummeted. This wasn't desire; it was ritual.
She grabbed his hand, pressing it between her thighs. The cotton salwar, still damp from the gym, clung transparently to her skin. "Like *this*," she hissed. Suresh recoiled as if scalded, his ears flushing the dull red of overripe tomatoes. "Soumya! Someone might —"
"There are no one here!" she snapped, pushing him onto the bed. Her knees bracketed his hips, the unfamiliar weight of her own aggression thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. Suresh gaped up at her, his hands frozen midair like a man awaiting arrest. Soumya grabbed them roughly, guiding his palms to her breasts—the same way Sharath had positioned her fingers around dumbbells. "Squeeze," she commanded, voice husky with borrowed confidence.
Suresh's fingers twitched, his grip tentative as if handling porcelain. "You're... different," he whispered, the words catching in his throat when Soumya ground against him. His hips jerked upward involuntarily—and then it happened. A choked gasp, his spine arching off the mattress, the sudden wet heat blooming between them. Soumya froze. Fifteen years of marriage, and she'd never seen him unravel this fast.
His breath came in ragged bursts against her collarbone. "Sorry," he mumbled into her skin, cheeks flaming. The sticky proof of his climax seeped through her salwar, cooling rapidly against her thighs. Soumya stared at the ceiling fan's lazy rotation, Sharath's mocking voice echoing in her skull: *Premium clients last longer.*
Disentangling herself, she wiped her hands on the bedsheet with deliberate slowness. Suresh reached for her wrist. "Wait, I can—"
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. She yanked the mangalsutra chain from her neck, the black beads scattering across the floor like fleeing cockroaches. Suresh flinched at the sound. "You *never* can."
The bathroom tiles were cold under Soumya's bare feet, the chill seeping up her legs as she stood motionless before the mirror. The mangalsutra's absence around her neck felt heavier than its presence ever had—a phantom weight pressing down on her collarbone. Behind her, the muffled sounds of Suresh shuffling into pajamas filtered through the door, the rhythmic rustling of fabric as predictable as his premature climax.
She turned the faucet on full blast, drowning out the domestic noises with the roar of water. Steam curled upward, fogging the mirror until her reflection dissolved into a blur—just as Sharath's face crystallized in her mind's eye. The way his tongue had moved between her thighs, practiced and unhurried, unlike Suresh's fumbling two-minute missionary. Soumya's fingers trailed down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her salwar. The fabric was still damp—not with sweat now, but with the evidence of her husband's pathetic release.
Outside, she heard the clatter of plates as Suresh cleared the dinner table alone, the silence between them thicker than the steam clinging to the bathroom tiles. He hadn't even tried to apologize. Hadn't touched her shoulder when she'd pushed past him to the bedroom. Just let her go, as if her anger were a passing storm he could wait out. The realization stung more than the hot water scalding her skin—he didn't *know* her enough to recognize this wasn't just another mood swing.
Soumya's fingers dipped lower, circling the swollen flesh still tender from Sharath's teeth marks. She imagined his mouth there now, those full lips closing around her clit with the same precision he'd used adjusting the barbell weights earlier. A choked moan escaped her throat, drowned by the shower's spray. Her hips jerked forward of their own accord, seeking friction
"Seems like someone missed me a lot" he smirked stroking his male ego of having a loving wife. Little did he know she just cummed twice in the hands of a guy much younger and hotter than him.
"Come" she immediately started pulling him to the bedroom, her hands trying to slowly remove the shirt buttons.
She watched an adult video once where the lady pulls the guy and he immediately starts fucking her with a lot of speed. She wanted the same from her husband. She knew she did a mistake at the gym with Sharath but now she wanted to forget it by letting her husband tasting and using her.
Meanwhile her husband was both surprised and slightly amused. So she laughed probably thinking it was still affection and love to him and not some carnal pleasure. "Someone's impatient," he said, letting her undress him.
Suresh's shirt hit the floor before he could process the hunger in Soumya's eyes—dark and unfamiliar, like monsoon clouds heavy with unshed rain. Her fingers trembled against his belt buckle, fumbling in a way she never had in fifteen years of marriage. "Slow down," he laughed, catching her wrists. "What's gotten into you?"
The question hung between them, sharp as the mangalsutra digging into Soumya's collarbone. She blinked, Sharath's phantom touch still burning along her spine. "I just..." Her voice cracked. "I want you to *touch* me. Properly." The plea slipped out raw, stripped of the coyness she'd worn like a second sari.
Suresh's brows knit. He cupped her face—calloused palms, the scent of motor oil clinging to his cuticles. "I *do* touch you," he murmured, thumb brushing her cheekbone with the same tentative reverence as their wedding night. Soumya's stomach plummeted. This wasn't desire; it was ritual.
She grabbed his hand, pressing it between her thighs. The cotton salwar, still damp from the gym, clung transparently to her skin. "Like *this*," she hissed. Suresh recoiled as if scalded, his ears flushing the dull red of overripe tomatoes. "Soumya! Someone might —"
"There are no one here!" she snapped, pushing him onto the bed. Her knees bracketed his hips, the unfamiliar weight of her own aggression thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. Suresh gaped up at her, his hands frozen midair like a man awaiting arrest. Soumya grabbed them roughly, guiding his palms to her breasts—the same way Sharath had positioned her fingers around dumbbells. "Squeeze," she commanded, voice husky with borrowed confidence.
Suresh's fingers twitched, his grip tentative as if handling porcelain. "You're... different," he whispered, the words catching in his throat when Soumya ground against him. His hips jerked upward involuntarily—and then it happened. A choked gasp, his spine arching off the mattress, the sudden wet heat blooming between them. Soumya froze. Fifteen years of marriage, and she'd never seen him unravel this fast.
His breath came in ragged bursts against her collarbone. "Sorry," he mumbled into her skin, cheeks flaming. The sticky proof of his climax seeped through her salwar, cooling rapidly against her thighs. Soumya stared at the ceiling fan's lazy rotation, Sharath's mocking voice echoing in her skull: *Premium clients last longer.*
Disentangling herself, she wiped her hands on the bedsheet with deliberate slowness. Suresh reached for her wrist. "Wait, I can—"
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. She yanked the mangalsutra chain from her neck, the black beads scattering across the floor like fleeing cockroaches. Suresh flinched at the sound. "You *never* can."
The bathroom tiles were cold under Soumya's bare feet, the chill seeping up her legs as she stood motionless before the mirror. The mangalsutra's absence around her neck felt heavier than its presence ever had—a phantom weight pressing down on her collarbone. Behind her, the muffled sounds of Suresh shuffling into pajamas filtered through the door, the rhythmic rustling of fabric as predictable as his premature climax.
She turned the faucet on full blast, drowning out the domestic noises with the roar of water. Steam curled upward, fogging the mirror until her reflection dissolved into a blur—just as Sharath's face crystallized in her mind's eye. The way his tongue had moved between her thighs, practiced and unhurried, unlike Suresh's fumbling two-minute missionary. Soumya's fingers trailed down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her salwar. The fabric was still damp—not with sweat now, but with the evidence of her husband's pathetic release.
Outside, she heard the clatter of plates as Suresh cleared the dinner table alone, the silence between them thicker than the steam clinging to the bathroom tiles. He hadn't even tried to apologize. Hadn't touched her shoulder when she'd pushed past him to the bedroom. Just let her go, as if her anger were a passing storm he could wait out. The realization stung more than the hot water scalding her skin—he didn't *know* her enough to recognize this wasn't just another mood swing.
Soumya's fingers dipped lower, circling the swollen flesh still tender from Sharath's teeth marks. She imagined his mouth there now, those full lips closing around her clit with the same precision he'd used adjusting the barbell weights earlier. A choked moan escaped her throat, drowned by the shower's spray. Her hips jerked forward of their own accord, seeking friction
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)