Misc. Erotica The Astrologer and My Wife (COMPLETED)- By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

I took my wife home in the car.

I did not speak a single word.
She sat beside me in her red silk saree, still slightly shaken from my friend’s hands on her ass, but I kept my eyes on the road. The anger from the whole evening sat heavy in my chest. I drove in silence. She tried to glance at me once or twice, but I did not look back.

By the time we reached the house, my wife had already understood.
She could see it on my face. I was angry. I was jealous. She did not ask questions. She did not argue. She simply followed me inside and up to the bedroom, quiet and ready to cooperate.

The moment the bedroom door closed, I turned to her.
I pulled the pallu of her red silk saree off her shoulder and began unwrapping the saree from her body. She stood still and let me do it. I opened the saree fully and dropped it on the floor. Then I untied her red petticoat and pushed it down over her hips until it fell at her feet. She stepped out of it without resistance. I opened her red blouse, pulled it off her arms, and threw it aside. Her white bra and white panties were all that remained.
I reached behind her, unhooked her bra, and pulled it off. Her full, heavy breasts came free. Then I hooked my fingers into the sides of her white panties and pulled them down her legs. She lifted each foot and stepped out of them. My wife stood completely naked in front of me, knowing exactly why I was like this, and she did not stop me.
I pushed her onto the bed. She lay back at once and opened her thighs for me. I got between them. My cock was already hard from the anger and the hunger of the entire evening. I rubbed the head of my cock against her pussy once, felt that she was wet enough, and pushed inside her in one firm stroke.
“Ahh… Shiva…”
I began fucking her hard.

There was no slow build. I held her thighs open and drove into her pussy with deep, angry thrusts. Her full breasts shook with every stroke. The bed moved under us. My wife cooperated fully — keeping her thighs open, holding my arms, taking every thrust without complaint.
And while I fucked her, the whole wedding began replaying in my mind.
First the videographer — his camera locked on her body, her face, her chest, her waist, her ass filling the big screen while high-profile men watched. I thrust harder into her pussy as that image burned through me.
Then the groom.

The way his eyes changed. The way he pulled her into a complete embrace. The way his chest pressed against her full breasts. The way he thanked her in that thick, horny voice while holding her longer than he should have. My cock slammed deeper into her as anger mixed with possession.

Then the basement.
The serving man making her take the gulab jamun in her hand. Her lips closing around it. The videographer coming down just to film her mouth. Twenty men watching her lips and teeth on the screen. Old men drooling. And that bastard later eating the exact bitten piece, tasting her saliva. I fucked her harder, breathing heavily, using her body to push the memory out of me.
Then the four men around her with ice cream.
One keeping her busy with soft questions. The other three looking at her from head to down without shame. Catering boys staring at her ass. Her pantyline sitting clearly over each ass cheek on the red silk saree. The boy behind the pillar jerking off while watching her. The big screen again, this time filled with her back and ass. My thrusts grew rougher, more emotional.
And then my friend.

Standing outside near the car. Hugging her. Looking at me like a gentleman while his hands grabbed her ass cheeks over the saree and felt her panties. The same ass I had kissed and tasted before the wedding. The same body that belonged only to me.
That memory broke something in me.

My throat tightened. My eyes burned. While I kept thrusting into her pussy, tears filled my eyes and started falling onto her face and breasts. I fucked her harder, but the anger had turned into something raw and emotional.
“You’re mine, Sudha… only mine. No one else is allowed to look at you like that. This body belongs only to me.”
My wife looked up at me, saw the tears, and understood everything. She held my arms tighter and opened her thighs even more for me.
“I know, Shiva… I know you’re angry. I’m yours… only yours. Take me. I’m right here.”
I kept fucking her deeply, emotionally, almost desperately, burying my cock into her pussy again and again as if I was claiming her from every man who had touched her with their eyes that night. Tears kept falling. My thrusts stayed strong and possessive. She cooperated with all of it — moaning, holding me, keeping her body open, letting me use her the way I needed.
“You belong only to me,” I said again, my forehead against hers. “Say it.”
“Ahh… Shiva… I’m only yours… this body is only yours… ahh…” she moaned under me, pulling me closer.
I kept driving into her with all the jealousy, love, and pain of that evening, watching her full breasts shake, listening to her broken moans, feeling her pussy grip my cock while my tears fell on her. She was mine. Every part of her was mine. And she was giving herself to me completely because she knew I was angry and jealous and needed to feel it.
The pressure built fast.
My thrusts grew shorter and heavier. My cock swelled inside her pussy. Tears were still falling from my eyes when the climax hit me.
“Ahh… Sudha… ahh… you’re mine… only mine… I’m cumming… nnnh—”
I buried myself fully inside her and came hard.
“Ugh… ahh… ahh…”
Thick spurts of cum shot deep into her pussy as I held her hips tight and emptied myself inside her. My cock pulsed again and again. Emotional, broken sounds kept leaving my throat with every spurt while my tears fell onto her breasts.
“Ahh… Shiva… I can feel you cumming inside me… ahh… it’s okay… I’m yours…” my wife moaned under me, holding me through it, her pussy clenching around my cock as I kept pouring into her.
“Nnnh… ahh… mine… only mine…” I groaned, still thrusting weakly through the last pulses, still crying, still emptying everything into her.
My cock throbbed until the last of my cum was deep inside her pussy.
I stayed over her, still inside her, breathing hard, tears still on my face.
My wife lay under me, naked, her pussy filled with my cum, her hands on my back, her eyes soft and understanding as she looked at me in the quiet bedroom.
I had taken her angrily.
I had taken her emotionally.
And she had cooperated through all of it, knowing exactly why.


I stayed inside her for a long time after I finished.
My breathing slowly settled. The tears on my face began to dry. My wife’s hands moved gently over my back. Her pussy was still full of my cum. The bedroom was quiet.
After a while I pulled out of her and lay beside her on the bed. She turned toward me at once. I looked at her naked body — the same body every man at that wedding had tried to enjoy with their eyes — and the possessiveness rose in me again, softer now, but still strong.
“You don’t know what all happened tonight,” I said.
My wife listened without interrupting.
I told her everything.
I told her about the videographer who kept focusing only on her, first on stage and then again in the basement. I told her how her face, her chest, her waist, and later her ass and pantyline filled the big screen while high-profile men watched. I told her about the groom who got horny and pulled her into a full embrace under the excuse of thanking her. I told her about the serving man who made her taste the gulab jamun with her hand and then ate the half-bitten piece just to take her saliva. I told her about the four men who surrounded us near the ice cream, one keeping her busy with quiet questions while the other three looked at her from head to down. I told her about the catering boys staring at her ass, and the one behind the pillar who was jerking off while watching her. And finally I told her about my own friend — how he hugged her near the car, spoke like a gentleman, and still grabbed her ass cheeks over the saree and felt her panties.
My voice stayed low, but the anger and jealousy were still in it.
“They were all looking at you like you belonged to them,” I said. “I was standing right there, and still they did it. You’re my wife. Only mine.”
My wife did not argue. She did not get defensive. She simply moved closer, brushed my hair back with her fingers, and kissed my forehead softly.
“I didn’t understand most of it, Shiva,” she said quietly. “I thought they were only being polite. I didn’t know they were looking at me like that.”
She kissed my forehead again and kept brushing my hair, comforting me the way only she could. After a moment she asked gently,
“How are you feeling now?”
I looked at her face, still close to mine, and answered honestly.
“After fucking you… I am feeling fine. The anger is less. When I am inside you, everything else becomes smaller.”
My wife understood at once.
She understood that when the jealousy and anger became too heavy, fucking her was the only thing that could settle me. She understood that my body needed hers to forget the eyes, the hands, and the screens of that night. There was no judgment in her expression — only quiet acceptance.
“Then whenever it becomes too much,” she said softly, still brushing my hair, “come to me. I am here. You can take me and forget.”
I put my arm around her naked waist and pulled her against me. Her full breasts pressed into my chest. Her leg came over mine. She stayed like that, kissing my forehead once more, her fingers moving slowly through my hair, while I held her with all the possessiveness that the night had left in me.
Outside, the house was silent.

Inside our bedroom, my wife lay naked in my arms, filled with my cum, comforting me after a night when too many men had tried to enjoy what belonged only to me — and she already understood that when the fire rose again, fucking her would be the way I found peace.