Adultery My wife his slut

[Rupakpolo1]

Every time I tried to remember last night—Bidisha’s laughing with her champagne, the way her blouse had slipped off her shoulder—the memory just vanished, like sugar melting in hot tea. She pushed a plate of buttered toast toward me and said, sounding as formal as an office memo. "Get ready for your first proper London trip."

A half-empty champagne bottle sat on the kitchen counter, the gold foil peeled off. I stared at it while Bidisha put eggs on my plate with a very steady hand. My head was throbbing with every move, but worse than the hangover was the big blank spot in my mind where last night's memories should be. All I had were broken pieces: her sitting on top of me, her silver elephant earrings shining in the light, and then... nothing.

We left the flat around 10 AM and took the tube to Covent Garden. She walked through the station with a lot of confidence, while I stumbled behind her, still feeling the jet lag and a heavy headache. She insisted on taking a selfie under the glass roof. It felt fake—her smile was too wide and her arm was gripping my waist too tight.

The photo clicked—she looked perfect, and I looked dazed. The glass ceiling above us broke the sunlight into patterns. After the photo, Bidisha’s fingers stayed on my waist for a second too long, her nails pressing into my skin through my shirt. "Let's see," she whispered, showing me the screen. We looked like a perfect couple—she looked polished and elegant, and I looked like a messy tourist.

On the way back, the tube was too noisy for talking, but I saw Bidisha looking at herself in the window. She wasn't being vain; she was studying herself. Her fingers kept touching a spot below her collarbone, hidden by her linen shirt. She had done the same restless gesture last night before bed when she thought I wasn't looking.

For the last few weeks before I flew to the UK, she was hardly reachable. Whenever I called, she would cut the call and say, "Busy now." Later, she would text me saying she was in a meeting or conference. Sometimes she would reply after 3-4 hours with just one word: "Sorry." Once, when I tried to video call her, she disconnected it in one second.

By afternoon, my headache was gone, but I felt uneasy. Bidisha’s fingers kept fluttering to her collarbone whenever she thought I wasn't looking. It was a nervous habit she never had before.

The key turned stiffly in the lock. Bidisha’s fingers were shaking slightly before the door opened. Inside, Sophia was lounging on the sofa like she owned the place.  I had seen her a few times during our video call.
"There's the happy couple!" She stood up quickly, laughing sharply, her long legs in a skirt that barely covered her thighs.

In Bidisha's video calls, Sophia looked just "normal " but in person, she was something else. Her lips were a deep crimson red, and her eyes were lined perfectly like a cat.

Sophia’s smile didn't reach her eyes- "Finally meeting the handsome husband of my beautiful friend," she purred, shaking my hand. Her fingers felt oddly cold. Her makeup was a bit too orange for her neck, and her perfume was too strong—vanilla and something sharp, like rubbing alcohol.

Her fingers stayed around mine for too long—smooth and cold like marble, with nails filed to sharp points. She smiled, showing too many teeth. "Arjun, finally, happy to see you here," she purred, tilting her head. "Bidisha talks about you constantly." She winked at my wife, and I saw Bidisha grip her purse tightly.

Sophia’s laughter was too loud "Look at you two! … The perfect Indian couple, all reunited and romantic. Just like Bollywood movies" She looked me up and down slowly, which made my skin prickle. She wasn't naturally beautiful like Bidisha; her beauty was made with makeup, contour, and highlighter, like a painted doll.

Sophia brushed my forearm as she leaned in. Her perfume was so strong it choked me. "Bidisha told me you blush like a collegeboy when pretty women talk to you," she whispered in my ear.

Sophia’s hand stayed on my arm for a bit too long. "But you don't need to be formal with me." She laughed. "Consider me your friend whenever this workaholic wife of yours "—she pointed at Bidisha—"ignores you."

We had dinner together. Sophia acted like a queen, her laughter too loud and her jokes too crude. She kept making comments about Bidisha’s "uptight Indian modesty," and her fingers would touch my wrist whenever she passed a dish. I saw Bidisha flinch every time Sophia was touching me but something was making me feel that she was afraid to say anything to her. Her shoulders drew inward—a small change that only a husband would notice. She seemed different; the Bidisha I knew would have fought back or said something sharp, like when she argued with a traffic cop in Kolkata. But now, she just stared into her wine, not reacting to anything that Sophia was telling about her, mocking her continuously on her mindset.

After dinner, we went to the bedroom. Sophia was still on the sofa with her wine glass, looking like a villain. In bed, Bidisha curled up against me, resting her head on my chest with a deep sigh. Her fingers traced patterns on my chest—not teasing, but slow and sad.

Her fingertip touched my collarbone with hesitation. The silence was very heavy. "Maybe..." Bidisha’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "Maybe you shouldn't take the UK projects after all."

"Change of mind?" I caught her wrist and felt her pulse racing. "Eight months apart and now you're rethinking everything?"

"Why are you saying this now?" I asked softly. Bidisha's eyelashes fluttered nervously. Her fingers gripped the sheets. "I don't know," she whispered. "It just feels... wrong…to stay away from everyone."

I asked her directly, "Have things changed between you and Sophia? You're not as close as before—no more trips or night outs?" Her breath hitched, and I could feel there is nervousness in her eyes.

"It's not like what you're thinking," she said too quickly, sounding panicked.

My fingers traced her waist under her nightgown. She stiffened slightly—that same hesitation—before catching my wrist. "Not tonight," she murmured. "Early meeting tomorrow."

Next morning, Bidisha worked in the kitchen like a machine. She cracked the eggs too hard and flipped the toast with a weird precision. To anyone else, it looked like a happy home, but I saw the tension in her shoulders. "I'll try to be back by six," she said without looking at me, sliding an omelet onto my plate. She was already wearing that shell-pink lipstick she always uses.

The omelet tasted bad, even though it was seasoned exactly how I like it, with cumin and green chilies. She ate while standing, checking her watch every thirty seconds. When she kissed me goodbye, her lips barely touched my cheek. Then she was gone, her heels clicking down the hallway.

The flat felt empty. I was drinking my third cup of tea when Sophia came out of her room, barefoot and yawning in a silk robe that slipped off her shoulder. "So," she drawled, sitting on the stool next to me, "how was your last night?.. Mr hubby... happy to see your wife after a long time?" Her knee brushed mine under the table—an "accident" that lasted too long.

"So," she said slowly, "Bidisha tells me you're some hotshot architect back home." Her fingers tapped her coffee mug. Her nails were exactly the same crimson color lipstick that she had yesterday on her lips.

I shrugged and stirred my tea. "Just an ordinary man with ordinary luck," I said. Without the makeup, she looked ordinary—dark circles under her eyes and a small scar on her eyebrow.

Sophia laughed and peeled an orange with her sharp nails, the juice running down her wrist. "Ordinary?" She licked the juice off her skin slowly. "Bidisha says you're a romantic. That you write her long letters. How sweet."

Sophia stood up and walked toward me, her robe fluttering. She leaned in, her perfume filling my nose again. "And tell me, Arjun... does your wife still taste like jasmine and honey in the bedroom? Or has she forgotten the taste of an 'ordinary' man?" Her hand suddenly slid down my back, her nails digging into my skin.

I jumped slightly. "Why are you asking this?"

Sophia chuckled, a low sound. "Just curious. Because when she's with me, she talks about you... but her eyes tell a different story." She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "Want to see what she's been doing while you were in India?"

Before I could say no, she pressed play. The screen showed a room. A man's voice—deep and rough—was talking. There was a punjabi accent in his voice. I could see his back first. He was huge and had muscles like ropes, he was in bed over someone. The camera was shaking, and Sophia’s laughter can be heard from the background.

And then I saw her, my hair in my arms stood up as soon as I saw her. It was my wife Bidisha. The guy had leaned down and was licking her throat. "Your cunt's already memorized my shape, sweetheart," he purred.
Bidisha looks frightened and shaky.
shaky.

"Please, Javed... just be gentle," Bidisha whispered, her voice a fragile thread that barely cut through the static of the recording. Her lips were parted, glistening with a thin sheen of saliva that caught the dim light of the room . She looked utterly undone, caught in a strange suspension between terror and a desperate, visceral need. The man, Javed, didn’t respond with words; he simply pressed his weight further into her, the mattress groaning under the sudden shift of his massive frame.

As the camera angle got changed, I saw his free hand groped her breast, digging into her skin until she whimpered. "Two months of me splitting you open and you're still acting like some blushing bride?" He thrust into her hard, the bedframe hitting the wall with a brutal rhythm. "Should've seen her last week , Sophia" he said to Sophia, who was filming, "begging me to fuck her raw while sobbing about her precious husband."

In the video, Bidisha's head thrashed against the pillows, her hair wet with sweat. "Sophia—stop filming—" she begged, but then she gasped as Javed moved his pelvis in slow circles. The camera zoomed in on their genitals, showing her body clenching around him.

Sophia’s laughter was cruel. "Why are you worried about me filming?" She moved the camera to show Javed's sweaty back, then Bidisha's flushed face. "Javed's got every moan, every squirt, every time you came on his cock saved in his gallery." She tapped the lens. "This one's just another addition”

As I watched, I felt an erection straining against my trousers. It felt like a betrayal. Sophia’s fingers grazed my bulge before I could move. "Mmm," she hummed, her lips against my ear, "just as I thought—you like watching your wife get ruined." On the screen, Javed's fingers pried apart Bidisha's lips while she whimpered. He looked like a predator.

"Look at that grip," Sophia whispered, rubbing slow circles over my cock. On the screen, Javed thrust deeper. "She's so tight around him—can you see how her little cunt milks his cock?" My wife's back arched off the bed, her breasts bouncing. Sophia dug her nails into my thigh. "He makes her cum harder than you ever could. Ask her—she'll admit it."

Javed’s voice rumbled through the speaker. "Tell me, princess," he growled, pressing his thumb onto Bidisha's tongue, "how many nights do I have to share you with this cuckold husband of yours?"

The camera zoomed in on Bidisha's face—her pupils wide, her breath ragged. "Well?" Sophia asked. "Going to tell hubby about your new bedtime routine?"

Javed’s thumb dragged across her lip, pinning her wrists above her head. "Answer her," he commanded in his thick accent. He rolled his hips deeper, making Bidisha gasp.

"I—" Bidisha’s voice cracked. "I can’t—"

"Can’t?" Javed laughed. His beard scbangd her collarbone. "Are you not going to complain to him about me forcing you?…Silly slut… Nothing will help. Your hubby can’t save you—you're my slut now." He pushed his thumb on her tongue, forcing her mouth open. The camera showed her fluttering lashes and her chest moving fast.

Javed's tongue dragged along her lower lip, making her whimper.

"Say now," he growled, "Who are you?"

Bidisha's eyes were dark with fear and something else. A drop of sweat ran down her throat. "I'm—" she started, but Javed's hips rolled deeper. Her wedding ring glinted under the light as she tried to hold onto his arms. "Javed's slut," she gasped.

Javed’s mouth crashed onto hers, his tongue forcing its way in. The camera caught her fingers clutching his biceps. He gripped her hair and tilted her head back, devouring her.

Javed gripped her jaw like a vise, making her lips pout. "Again," he growled, his hips hitting her with a wet slap. "I'm—" she started. "Javed's slut," she gasped, sobbing as he ground his pelvis into her.

"Again... repeat again," Javed said, smearing saliva on her chin. The camera zoomed in, and I could hear Sophia’s breath. "J-Javed’s slut," she stammered, her wedding ring catching the light as she twisted the sheets. "Yours—only yours—" She cried out as he thrust deeper.

Sophia's laughter sounded like honey mixed with poison. She zoomed the camera on where Javed's cock was stretching Bidisha wide. "Oh, this is perfect," she cooed, capturing the twitching of Bidisha's thighs.

Javed yanked her hair back, making her throat stretch. "Tell me slut," he growled, slowing down his thrusts to be cruel. "Will you let your wimpy husband touch you when he is here?"

Sophia laughed, still holding the phone. "She was so excited because her husband is coming for vacation!"

Javed asked, "Is it true, slut? Do you know what will happen if I find out you got intimate with your lover boy?"

Bidisha stammered, "He is my husband... he is going to see me after 8 months..."

Sophia interrupted, "Aww... poor Bidisha... but you know what Javed wants, right?"

Meanwhile, in the room, Sophia’s fingers were already opening my belt. Her nails scbangd the skin below my navel as she popped the button. "Such a pretty little thing," she whispered, pulling my zipper down. "All hard and leaking just from watching your wife get owned." The cold air hit my skin, and I twitched.

I was seeing my wife declaring herself a slut of a stranger that I had never met. I asked Sophia- “who is Javed?”

Sophia said - “Your wife lover”

My hips jumped when her fingers closed around me, her thumb smearing my precum in circles. "You know Arjun…Javed's going to love this," she purred, and then pinched my nipple hard through my shirt. "Watching his new pet's husband jerking seeing his slut wife being fucked by him." She stroked me in time with Javed's thrusts on the screen.

Sophia’s fingers curled around me, her thumb pressing the head just enough to make my knees weak. "Well?" she whispered, as Javed's voice growled from the phone—"You let that pencil dick touch you, I will punish you severely, my slut." Bidisha's whimpers echoed. Sophia's grip tightened, her nails scbanging my shaft. "Answer me, Arjun. Are you enjoying watching your wife learn her place?"

Sophia’s nails bit into my flesh as she pulled my cock out of my trousers. The cold air made me twitch, and she laughed. "Oh, someone's excited," she murmured, swiping her head. On the phone, Javed's fingers dug into Bidisha's hips. "Remember, meri rani," he growled in his accent, "if I find out you let this cuckold husband inside you... I'll make you regret it in ways you can't imagine." He gave her a punishing thrust, and Bidisha was letting out a broken gasp.