10-09-2026, 11:13 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-09-2026, 11:14 PM by kirak9484. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
The fifteen-minute clock began the instant Rohan’s tongue touched the outer lips of Ananya’s cunt.
She stood naked against the cool glass, palms flat, legs forced slightly apart. On the other side of the one-way mirror Rajesh sat with his laptop open, listening to Vicky speak in a calm, professional tone about deliverables and timelines. The four speakers hidden in the corners of that room were live. Every wet sound, every breath, every eventual broken cry would travel clearly into the space where Ananya’s husband waited, unaware.
Rohan knelt in front of her. He did not rush. He used the flat of his tongue to part her outer labia slowly, dragging upward from the wet entrance all the way to the hood of her clit, then back down again. The first stroke forced a sharp intake of breath through Ananya’s nose. She locked her jaw. Her fingers pressed harder against the glass.
He repeated the motion, slower. The soft, wet sound of tongue on sensitive flesh filled the quiet bedroom and slipped through the open speakers as a faint, rhythmic noise. Rajesh’s fingers paused on the keyboard for half a second, then continued typing.
Rohan’s thumbs spread her labia open, exposing the pink inner folds and the swollen pearl of her clit. He breathed warm air across the exposed tissue, then licked a tight circle around the clit without touching it directly. Ananya’s thighs trembled. A tiny, high sound tried to escape; she swallowed it. Sweat had already begun to gather between her bare breasts.
He ignored the clit and focused lower. Two fingers slid between the slick inner lips, stroking the sensitive ridges on either side of her entrance without entering. Up and down, slow and deliberate, coating his fingers in her growing wetness. The soft, wet friction was maddening. Ananya bit her lower lip until she tasted blood. Her hips gave one small, involuntary twitch.
Rohan smiled against her thigh.
He pushed the two fingers inside her cunt in one smooth motion, curling them immediately upward against the front wall. The moment he found the slightly rougher, swollen patch of her G-spot he began to rub it in firm, precise circles. At the same time his tongue returned to her clit — not sucking yet, only flicking the tip lightly, repeatedly, in time with the internal stroking.
Ananya’s head dropped forward. A long, shaky breath left her. The dual stimulation — thick fingers working the G-spot while the tongue teased the clit — sent thick pulses of pleasure through her lower belly. She counted seconds. One minute. Two. Her silence held, but the pressure behind her teeth was growing.
Rohan added a third finger. The stretch forced a soft, involuntary “nnh” from her throat before she could stop it. He laughed quietly, the sound low and pleased, and began to pump the three fingers in short, deep strokes that rubbed continuously across her G-spot while his tongue finally sealed over her clit and sucked.
The wet sounds grew louder — the soft suction of his mouth, the slick movement of fingers inside her, the occasional quiet gasp she could no longer fully suppress. Those sounds travelled perfectly through the speakers.
In the adjacent room Rajesh’s brow furrowed. He looked up from the screen.
“Sir… what is that noise?”
Vicky did not glance away from the papers.
“My friend Rohan is upstairs with a friend’s wife. She is shy. He is only teasing her a little. Nothing important. Keep looking at the numbers.”
Another soft, wet sound came through — clearer this time — followed by a stifled female whimper. Rajesh’s cock stirred inside his trousers. The pitch of the voice was soft, familiar in a way that made the back of his neck heat. He shifted in his chair, trying to focus on the laptop, but the next wet lick and the quiet, broken “ahh…” that followed sent a pulse of unwanted blood straight to his groin.
Inside the bedroom Rohan had settled into a ruthless rhythm.
Three fingers stroked firmly across Ananya’s G-spot while his mouth worked her clit with alternating suction and rapid flicks of the tongue. His free hand rose and closed over her left breast, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching the nipple in time with the internal thrusts. Ananya’s arms shook. Tears of pure effort slid down her cheeks. She could feel the orgasm building like a wave that wanted to crash, and she fought it with everything she had.
At the four-minute mark her control slipped.
A clear, high moan left her lips — “Ahhhh…” — longer and louder than she intended. Rohan’s fingers immediately slowed, denying the peak, and his mouth left her clit. He waited until the trembling in her thighs eased, then started again — same deep G-spot strokes, same relentless tongue on the swollen bud, same hand kneading her breast.
Ananya’s moans began to escape in a broken chain.
“Nnh… ahh… ahhh… please…”
She tried to close her legs; his shoulders held them open. She tried to pull her hips back; his free hand gripped her waist and kept her pressed against his mouth. The wet sounds of her cunt being fingered and licked grew obscenely loud. Every slick thrust of his fingers, every wet suck on her clit, every soft cry she could no longer hold back travelled straight through the live speakers into the room where her husband sat.
Rajesh was fully hard now.
The voice — the exact pitch of the higher moans, the way they broke — kept brushing against the memory of Ananya’s soft sounds in the dark of their own bedroom. Confusion and arousal tangled until he could no longer separate them. He stared at the one-way glass that looked like an ordinary mirror from his side, wishing he could see through it. He wanted to know what the woman looked like, how she was being touched, why her cries sounded so much like the woman he loved.
Vicky continued speaking about quarterly targets as if nothing unusual were happening, but his eyes flicked once toward the glass with quiet satisfaction.
Another prolonged, desperate moan rolled through the speakers — “Ahhhh… I can’t… nnhhh…” — and Rajesh’s hand tightened on the edge of the desk. His cock throbbed. The professional meeting had become impossible to follow. All he could hear was the wet, rhythmic sound of a cunt being thoroughly worked and the rising, helpless voice of a woman who was clearly losing a battle against pleasure.
In the bedroom Ananya had broken completely.
Rohan’s three fingers rubbed her G-spot without pause while his tongue and lips kept her clit in constant, wet suction. His other hand moved from one breast to the other, squeezing, pinching, rolling the nipples until both stood stiff and dark. Ananya’s cries were continuous now — high, broken, soaked in tears and shame.
“Ahhh… ahhh… please… I need… ahhhh…”
He brought her to the very edge again and again, each time slowing or changing pressure just enough to keep the orgasm hanging out of reach. Her juices ran down his wrist and dripped onto the floor. Her thighs shook violently. Soft, full breasts trembled with every sobbed breath. The fifteen-minute deal was already lost; every moan that left her mouth was another nail in the coffin of her freedom. Yet the physical need had become so overwhelming that she could no longer care.
Rohan lifted his mouth just long enough to speak, voice perfectly clear for the microphones.
“Listen to yourself, Ananya. Senior Rajesh’s strict lecturer wife… crying and soaking my hand while your husband sits on the other side of this glass. You are dripping down my fingers. And we still have time left.”
Then he sealed his mouth over her clit again and sucked hard, fingers stroking firmly across the swollen G-spot.
Ananya’s cry this time was raw and loud, echoing through the bedroom and straight into the room where Rajesh sat rigid, fully erect, and deeply, confusingly aroused by a voice that sounded far too much like the woman he had married.
Ananya’s cries had risen past any attempt at control.
Each new wave of Rohan’s tongue and fingers forced louder, rawer sounds from her throat. The wet, rhythmic noise of his mouth on her cunt mixed with her broken sobs and high, desperate moans until the entire bedroom — and every speaker in the adjacent room — was filled with the unmistakable soundtrack of a woman being driven past her limits.
“Ahhhh… nnhhh… ahhh… please… I can’t… ahhhhh…!”
Rajesh’s hands had gone completely still on the keyboard. His cock was painfully hard inside his trousers, throbbing in time with every fresh cry that poured through the speakers. The voice — soft, high, breaking on the same notes he had only rarely heard from Ananya in the darkest privacy of their bedroom — was unravelling him. He could no longer pretend the sounds were distant or unimportant.
He turned fully toward Vicky, face flushed, breathing uneven.
“Sir… what is your friend doing to her? How is she crying like this? In what way is he… fucking her? She is going completely mad. I have never heard moans like this. Never. How is he making her sound like that?”
Vicky leaned back in his chair, expression calm, almost mildly curious. He let another long, wet, female cry echo through the room before he answered.
“He is only using his mouth and fingers for now. Nothing more. Some women respond very strongly when you know exactly where to touch them.”
Rajesh’s throat worked. Another prolonged, sobbing moan rolled through the speakers — higher, more broken than the last. His cock jerked hard against the fabric of his pants. The question formed before he could stop it, driven by a mixture of genuine confusion and a darker, growing heat.
Vicky watched the struggle on his face for a moment, then spoke in a quiet, almost casual tone that landed like a precise blade.
“You don’t need to feel embarrassed. I’ll ask you one simple question. When you fuck your own wife… does she ever moan like this? Does she ever cry out the way this woman is crying right now?”
Rajesh’s breath caught so sharply it was almost a gasp.
The question was so direct, so unexpected, that heat flooded his face and neck. Shame and arousal crashed together until he could barely think. He had never been asked anything like this in his life. The image of Ananya beneath him — quiet, soft, rarely making more than small, restrained sounds — rose in his mind and collided violently with the raw, continuous cries still pouring from the speakers.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally forced the words out in a low, strained voice.
“No, sir… my wife has never moaned like this. Not in our entire married life.”
Vicky’s eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. He leaned forward slightly, voice still gentle, almost helpful.
“I think you felt uncomfortable. I’m sorry if the question was too personal. You said you had never heard sounds like these, so I only asked about your wife. No need to answer further if it makes you uneasy.”
But Rajesh had already answered, and the admission hung in the air between them. Vicky continued, tone thoughtful, almost philosophical, while another wet, desperate cry from Ananya filled the pause.
“No, no… every married woman has deep sexual desire. The difference is whether her husband knows how to draw it out of her. Some men never learn the places, the pressure, the patience. I think… perhaps you have not fucked your wife properly yet. If you had, she would already be moaning louder than this woman upstairs.”
Rajesh’s face had gone pale. His hands were clenched on his thighs. Yet beneath the shame a darker current was rising — images he had never allowed himself before. Ananya’s soft body, her restrained sounds, the possibility that there was an entire hidden layer of her that he had never reached. The idea that another man might know how to pull those raw, helpless cries from her made his cock throb even harder.
Vicky’s voice dropped a fraction lower, almost intimate.
“And your wife is more beautiful than most, isn’t she? From what I remember at the office parties… very graceful, very soft. A woman like that, if handled correctly, would cry and moan even louder than the one we are hearing right now. She would break completely. She would soak the sheets. She would forget every rule she ever lived by.”
Rajesh could not look at him. His ears were filled with Ananya’s ongoing cries — “Ahhhh… nnhhh… ahhh…!” — and the words Vicky had just spoken. The two blended until he could no longer separate the woman upstairs from the wife waiting at home. A thick, shameful heat spread through his groin and lower belly. Cuckold thoughts he had never named before began to surface: the idea of Ananya’s face contorted in the same helpless pleasure, the idea of her voice rising exactly like this under someone else’s hands, the idea that he had never been enough to pull those sounds from her himself.
He remained silent, pale, fully erect, and listening to every new cry that proved Vicky’s point more clearly than any lecture could.
Vicky smiled, small and knowing, and returned his attention to the papers as if the conversation had been nothing more than a mild observation between colleagues — while upstairs Rohan’s mouth and fingers continued to drag louder, wetter, more broken sounds from Ananya’s throat, and every one of them travelled straight into the room where her husband sat, hard and quietly coming undone.
Ananya’s resistance finally collapsed under the precise, relentless pressure of Rohan’s fingers.
She had tried — desperately — to lock her throat, to bite down on the rising cries, to keep the fifteen-minute silence that still offered a path to freedom. But the three thick fingers now working inside her cunt left her no room to hide. He had started with two, curling them firmly against the swollen ridge of her G-spot, stroking in short, deep thrusts that made her thighs shake. When he added the third finger the stretch forced a raw, open cry from her lips that she could no longer swallow.
“Nooooo… ooo… ahhhhhhhhh—!”
The sound tore out of her, high and broken. Her back arched hard against the glass. Juices spilled around his driving fingers as the orgasm crashed through her in violent waves. Her cunt clenched and fluttered around the invading digits; her breasts heaved; tears streamed down her face while long, helpless moans poured from her throat without pause. The climax was longer and stronger than the previous two, leaving her legs trembling so badly she could barely stay upright.
Rohan kept his fingers buried inside her through the entire release, feeling every spasm, listening to every cry. Only when the worst of the shaking subsided did he slowly withdraw them, wet and shining. He looked up at her flushed, tear-streaked face with open satisfaction.
“Wow,” he said clearly, voice carrying perfectly through the live speakers. “A beautiful married woman — my friend’s wife — releases such a strong orgasm… and I still haven’t even fucked you yet.”
Ananya’s eyes squeezed shut in fresh shame. The words landed like another violation.
Rohan stood, wiped his hand casually on a nearby towel, and spoke again, still loud enough for every speaker in the adjacent room.
“Stay here and rest for ten minutes. I’ll come back and fuck you properly.”
Then he turned and walked toward the connecting door that led to the glass-walled study.
In the other room Rajesh’s mind had gone completely blank.
Ananya’s final, prolonged cry still echoed in his ears. The wet, rhythmic sounds of fingers moving inside a cunt, the broken female moans, the clear declaration that the woman had come hard without even being fucked — all of it crashed through him at once. His cock was so hard it ached, trapped painfully against the zipper of his trousers. He could not look at the papers. He could not look at Vicky. He could only sit rigid, breathing shallowly, while the after-echoes of that orgasm continued to replay in his head.
Vicky watched him for a moment, then spoke in a mild, almost instructive tone.
“Listen to that. That married woman just cried through her third orgasm. She is as conservative and strict as your own wife… yet we made her into a complete slut with only mouths and fingers. Imagine what will happen when my friend actually puts his cock inside her.”
Rajesh’s throat worked. No words came out.
The connecting door opened.
Rohan stepped through, still completely naked.
Rajesh’s eyes went wide. The man was pure gym muscle — broad chest covered in a light thatch of dark hair, thick arms, hard six-pack, heavy thighs. But it was the cock that stopped Rajesh’s breath. Even soft it hung long and thick, easily eleven inches, heavy veins running along the shaft, the head still slightly flushed and glistening from earlier contact with Ananya’s body. It swung as Rohan moved, far thicker and longer than anything Rajesh had ever seen in person.
Behind Rohan, through the open doorway, Rajesh caught a clear glimpse of the bedroom: a woman lying face-down on the large bed, completely nude, back rising and falling with heavy panting, soft ass still slightly raised, the sheets beneath her visibly wet.
Rohan noticed the open line of sight, smirked, and casually wrapped a white towel around his waist, knotting it low on his hips. The thick outline of his cock was still clearly visible against the fabric.
He spoke to Vicky as if Rajesh were not even in the room, voice casual and slightly amused.
“Arre Vicky, saali, bahut garmi hai. Mere friend ki wife hai woh… par bohot strict aur conservative. Abhi tak teen baar cum karwa diya sirf muh aur ungliyon se. Saali nakhre karti hai, lekin body toh bilkul ready ho gayi hai.”
(Arre Vicky, damn, it’s hot. She’s my friend’s wife… but very strict and conservative. I’ve already made her cum three times with just mouth and fingers. The bitch puts on airs, but her body is completely ready.)
Rajesh’s cock throbbed so hard he had to press a hand against his thigh to hide it. The Hindi words, the casual ownership, the clear description of a strict married woman being broken open — all of it hit him like a physical blow. His own cock, barely five inches and far thinner, felt suddenly small and inadequate in comparison to the heavy length he had just seen hanging between Rohan’s muscular thighs.
Unbidden images flooded his mind: Ananya in that same position, face-down and panting, legs open, body marked and wet, while a cock twice the size of his own pushed into her. The thought made his stomach twist with shame and a dark, undeniable heat.
Vicky laughed, low and knowing, and glanced at Rajesh.
“We both know the truth, Rohan. Every married woman has sexual desire locked inside her. You only have to use her properly. Look at my office colleague here…” He tilted his head toward Rajesh. “His wife is even more beautiful and more restrained. If she were ever handled the way you just handled that woman upstairs, she would moan and cry even louder. She would soak the bed. She would forget she was ever a strict lecturer or a loyal wife.”
Rajesh’s face had gone pale, yet his cock remained painfully erect. The combination of Ananya’s still-echoing cries, the visual of Rohan’s massive cock, the casual talk of turning conservative wives into moaning sluts, and the direct comparison to his own marriage left him sitting in a thick fog of humiliation and unwanted arousal.
He could no longer concentrate on a single word of the original “meeting.” All he could do was sit there, hard and silent, while the two men spoke openly about the complete sexual breaking of married women — and while the image of his own soft, quiet Ananya being reduced to the same raw, crying state burned behind his eyes.....
She stood naked against the cool glass, palms flat, legs forced slightly apart. On the other side of the one-way mirror Rajesh sat with his laptop open, listening to Vicky speak in a calm, professional tone about deliverables and timelines. The four speakers hidden in the corners of that room were live. Every wet sound, every breath, every eventual broken cry would travel clearly into the space where Ananya’s husband waited, unaware.
Rohan knelt in front of her. He did not rush. He used the flat of his tongue to part her outer labia slowly, dragging upward from the wet entrance all the way to the hood of her clit, then back down again. The first stroke forced a sharp intake of breath through Ananya’s nose. She locked her jaw. Her fingers pressed harder against the glass.
He repeated the motion, slower. The soft, wet sound of tongue on sensitive flesh filled the quiet bedroom and slipped through the open speakers as a faint, rhythmic noise. Rajesh’s fingers paused on the keyboard for half a second, then continued typing.
Rohan’s thumbs spread her labia open, exposing the pink inner folds and the swollen pearl of her clit. He breathed warm air across the exposed tissue, then licked a tight circle around the clit without touching it directly. Ananya’s thighs trembled. A tiny, high sound tried to escape; she swallowed it. Sweat had already begun to gather between her bare breasts.
He ignored the clit and focused lower. Two fingers slid between the slick inner lips, stroking the sensitive ridges on either side of her entrance without entering. Up and down, slow and deliberate, coating his fingers in her growing wetness. The soft, wet friction was maddening. Ananya bit her lower lip until she tasted blood. Her hips gave one small, involuntary twitch.
Rohan smiled against her thigh.
He pushed the two fingers inside her cunt in one smooth motion, curling them immediately upward against the front wall. The moment he found the slightly rougher, swollen patch of her G-spot he began to rub it in firm, precise circles. At the same time his tongue returned to her clit — not sucking yet, only flicking the tip lightly, repeatedly, in time with the internal stroking.
Ananya’s head dropped forward. A long, shaky breath left her. The dual stimulation — thick fingers working the G-spot while the tongue teased the clit — sent thick pulses of pleasure through her lower belly. She counted seconds. One minute. Two. Her silence held, but the pressure behind her teeth was growing.
Rohan added a third finger. The stretch forced a soft, involuntary “nnh” from her throat before she could stop it. He laughed quietly, the sound low and pleased, and began to pump the three fingers in short, deep strokes that rubbed continuously across her G-spot while his tongue finally sealed over her clit and sucked.
The wet sounds grew louder — the soft suction of his mouth, the slick movement of fingers inside her, the occasional quiet gasp she could no longer fully suppress. Those sounds travelled perfectly through the speakers.
In the adjacent room Rajesh’s brow furrowed. He looked up from the screen.
“Sir… what is that noise?”
Vicky did not glance away from the papers.
“My friend Rohan is upstairs with a friend’s wife. She is shy. He is only teasing her a little. Nothing important. Keep looking at the numbers.”
Another soft, wet sound came through — clearer this time — followed by a stifled female whimper. Rajesh’s cock stirred inside his trousers. The pitch of the voice was soft, familiar in a way that made the back of his neck heat. He shifted in his chair, trying to focus on the laptop, but the next wet lick and the quiet, broken “ahh…” that followed sent a pulse of unwanted blood straight to his groin.
Inside the bedroom Rohan had settled into a ruthless rhythm.
Three fingers stroked firmly across Ananya’s G-spot while his mouth worked her clit with alternating suction and rapid flicks of the tongue. His free hand rose and closed over her left breast, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching the nipple in time with the internal thrusts. Ananya’s arms shook. Tears of pure effort slid down her cheeks. She could feel the orgasm building like a wave that wanted to crash, and she fought it with everything she had.
At the four-minute mark her control slipped.
A clear, high moan left her lips — “Ahhhh…” — longer and louder than she intended. Rohan’s fingers immediately slowed, denying the peak, and his mouth left her clit. He waited until the trembling in her thighs eased, then started again — same deep G-spot strokes, same relentless tongue on the swollen bud, same hand kneading her breast.
Ananya’s moans began to escape in a broken chain.
“Nnh… ahh… ahhh… please…”
She tried to close her legs; his shoulders held them open. She tried to pull her hips back; his free hand gripped her waist and kept her pressed against his mouth. The wet sounds of her cunt being fingered and licked grew obscenely loud. Every slick thrust of his fingers, every wet suck on her clit, every soft cry she could no longer hold back travelled straight through the live speakers into the room where her husband sat.
Rajesh was fully hard now.
The voice — the exact pitch of the higher moans, the way they broke — kept brushing against the memory of Ananya’s soft sounds in the dark of their own bedroom. Confusion and arousal tangled until he could no longer separate them. He stared at the one-way glass that looked like an ordinary mirror from his side, wishing he could see through it. He wanted to know what the woman looked like, how she was being touched, why her cries sounded so much like the woman he loved.
Vicky continued speaking about quarterly targets as if nothing unusual were happening, but his eyes flicked once toward the glass with quiet satisfaction.
Another prolonged, desperate moan rolled through the speakers — “Ahhhh… I can’t… nnhhh…” — and Rajesh’s hand tightened on the edge of the desk. His cock throbbed. The professional meeting had become impossible to follow. All he could hear was the wet, rhythmic sound of a cunt being thoroughly worked and the rising, helpless voice of a woman who was clearly losing a battle against pleasure.
In the bedroom Ananya had broken completely.
Rohan’s three fingers rubbed her G-spot without pause while his tongue and lips kept her clit in constant, wet suction. His other hand moved from one breast to the other, squeezing, pinching, rolling the nipples until both stood stiff and dark. Ananya’s cries were continuous now — high, broken, soaked in tears and shame.
“Ahhh… ahhh… please… I need… ahhhh…”
He brought her to the very edge again and again, each time slowing or changing pressure just enough to keep the orgasm hanging out of reach. Her juices ran down his wrist and dripped onto the floor. Her thighs shook violently. Soft, full breasts trembled with every sobbed breath. The fifteen-minute deal was already lost; every moan that left her mouth was another nail in the coffin of her freedom. Yet the physical need had become so overwhelming that she could no longer care.
Rohan lifted his mouth just long enough to speak, voice perfectly clear for the microphones.
“Listen to yourself, Ananya. Senior Rajesh’s strict lecturer wife… crying and soaking my hand while your husband sits on the other side of this glass. You are dripping down my fingers. And we still have time left.”
Then he sealed his mouth over her clit again and sucked hard, fingers stroking firmly across the swollen G-spot.
Ananya’s cry this time was raw and loud, echoing through the bedroom and straight into the room where Rajesh sat rigid, fully erect, and deeply, confusingly aroused by a voice that sounded far too much like the woman he had married.
Ananya’s cries had risen past any attempt at control.
Each new wave of Rohan’s tongue and fingers forced louder, rawer sounds from her throat. The wet, rhythmic noise of his mouth on her cunt mixed with her broken sobs and high, desperate moans until the entire bedroom — and every speaker in the adjacent room — was filled with the unmistakable soundtrack of a woman being driven past her limits.
“Ahhhh… nnhhh… ahhh… please… I can’t… ahhhhh…!”
Rajesh’s hands had gone completely still on the keyboard. His cock was painfully hard inside his trousers, throbbing in time with every fresh cry that poured through the speakers. The voice — soft, high, breaking on the same notes he had only rarely heard from Ananya in the darkest privacy of their bedroom — was unravelling him. He could no longer pretend the sounds were distant or unimportant.
He turned fully toward Vicky, face flushed, breathing uneven.
“Sir… what is your friend doing to her? How is she crying like this? In what way is he… fucking her? She is going completely mad. I have never heard moans like this. Never. How is he making her sound like that?”
Vicky leaned back in his chair, expression calm, almost mildly curious. He let another long, wet, female cry echo through the room before he answered.
“He is only using his mouth and fingers for now. Nothing more. Some women respond very strongly when you know exactly where to touch them.”
Rajesh’s throat worked. Another prolonged, sobbing moan rolled through the speakers — higher, more broken than the last. His cock jerked hard against the fabric of his pants. The question formed before he could stop it, driven by a mixture of genuine confusion and a darker, growing heat.
Vicky watched the struggle on his face for a moment, then spoke in a quiet, almost casual tone that landed like a precise blade.
“You don’t need to feel embarrassed. I’ll ask you one simple question. When you fuck your own wife… does she ever moan like this? Does she ever cry out the way this woman is crying right now?”
Rajesh’s breath caught so sharply it was almost a gasp.
The question was so direct, so unexpected, that heat flooded his face and neck. Shame and arousal crashed together until he could barely think. He had never been asked anything like this in his life. The image of Ananya beneath him — quiet, soft, rarely making more than small, restrained sounds — rose in his mind and collided violently with the raw, continuous cries still pouring from the speakers.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally forced the words out in a low, strained voice.
“No, sir… my wife has never moaned like this. Not in our entire married life.”
Vicky’s eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. He leaned forward slightly, voice still gentle, almost helpful.
“I think you felt uncomfortable. I’m sorry if the question was too personal. You said you had never heard sounds like these, so I only asked about your wife. No need to answer further if it makes you uneasy.”
But Rajesh had already answered, and the admission hung in the air between them. Vicky continued, tone thoughtful, almost philosophical, while another wet, desperate cry from Ananya filled the pause.
“No, no… every married woman has deep sexual desire. The difference is whether her husband knows how to draw it out of her. Some men never learn the places, the pressure, the patience. I think… perhaps you have not fucked your wife properly yet. If you had, she would already be moaning louder than this woman upstairs.”
Rajesh’s face had gone pale. His hands were clenched on his thighs. Yet beneath the shame a darker current was rising — images he had never allowed himself before. Ananya’s soft body, her restrained sounds, the possibility that there was an entire hidden layer of her that he had never reached. The idea that another man might know how to pull those raw, helpless cries from her made his cock throb even harder.
Vicky’s voice dropped a fraction lower, almost intimate.
“And your wife is more beautiful than most, isn’t she? From what I remember at the office parties… very graceful, very soft. A woman like that, if handled correctly, would cry and moan even louder than the one we are hearing right now. She would break completely. She would soak the sheets. She would forget every rule she ever lived by.”
Rajesh could not look at him. His ears were filled with Ananya’s ongoing cries — “Ahhhh… nnhhh… ahhh…!” — and the words Vicky had just spoken. The two blended until he could no longer separate the woman upstairs from the wife waiting at home. A thick, shameful heat spread through his groin and lower belly. Cuckold thoughts he had never named before began to surface: the idea of Ananya’s face contorted in the same helpless pleasure, the idea of her voice rising exactly like this under someone else’s hands, the idea that he had never been enough to pull those sounds from her himself.
He remained silent, pale, fully erect, and listening to every new cry that proved Vicky’s point more clearly than any lecture could.
Vicky smiled, small and knowing, and returned his attention to the papers as if the conversation had been nothing more than a mild observation between colleagues — while upstairs Rohan’s mouth and fingers continued to drag louder, wetter, more broken sounds from Ananya’s throat, and every one of them travelled straight into the room where her husband sat, hard and quietly coming undone.
Ananya’s resistance finally collapsed under the precise, relentless pressure of Rohan’s fingers.
She had tried — desperately — to lock her throat, to bite down on the rising cries, to keep the fifteen-minute silence that still offered a path to freedom. But the three thick fingers now working inside her cunt left her no room to hide. He had started with two, curling them firmly against the swollen ridge of her G-spot, stroking in short, deep thrusts that made her thighs shake. When he added the third finger the stretch forced a raw, open cry from her lips that she could no longer swallow.
“Nooooo… ooo… ahhhhhhhhh—!”
The sound tore out of her, high and broken. Her back arched hard against the glass. Juices spilled around his driving fingers as the orgasm crashed through her in violent waves. Her cunt clenched and fluttered around the invading digits; her breasts heaved; tears streamed down her face while long, helpless moans poured from her throat without pause. The climax was longer and stronger than the previous two, leaving her legs trembling so badly she could barely stay upright.
Rohan kept his fingers buried inside her through the entire release, feeling every spasm, listening to every cry. Only when the worst of the shaking subsided did he slowly withdraw them, wet and shining. He looked up at her flushed, tear-streaked face with open satisfaction.
“Wow,” he said clearly, voice carrying perfectly through the live speakers. “A beautiful married woman — my friend’s wife — releases such a strong orgasm… and I still haven’t even fucked you yet.”
Ananya’s eyes squeezed shut in fresh shame. The words landed like another violation.
Rohan stood, wiped his hand casually on a nearby towel, and spoke again, still loud enough for every speaker in the adjacent room.
“Stay here and rest for ten minutes. I’ll come back and fuck you properly.”
Then he turned and walked toward the connecting door that led to the glass-walled study.
In the other room Rajesh’s mind had gone completely blank.
Ananya’s final, prolonged cry still echoed in his ears. The wet, rhythmic sounds of fingers moving inside a cunt, the broken female moans, the clear declaration that the woman had come hard without even being fucked — all of it crashed through him at once. His cock was so hard it ached, trapped painfully against the zipper of his trousers. He could not look at the papers. He could not look at Vicky. He could only sit rigid, breathing shallowly, while the after-echoes of that orgasm continued to replay in his head.
Vicky watched him for a moment, then spoke in a mild, almost instructive tone.
“Listen to that. That married woman just cried through her third orgasm. She is as conservative and strict as your own wife… yet we made her into a complete slut with only mouths and fingers. Imagine what will happen when my friend actually puts his cock inside her.”
Rajesh’s throat worked. No words came out.
The connecting door opened.
Rohan stepped through, still completely naked.
Rajesh’s eyes went wide. The man was pure gym muscle — broad chest covered in a light thatch of dark hair, thick arms, hard six-pack, heavy thighs. But it was the cock that stopped Rajesh’s breath. Even soft it hung long and thick, easily eleven inches, heavy veins running along the shaft, the head still slightly flushed and glistening from earlier contact with Ananya’s body. It swung as Rohan moved, far thicker and longer than anything Rajesh had ever seen in person.
Behind Rohan, through the open doorway, Rajesh caught a clear glimpse of the bedroom: a woman lying face-down on the large bed, completely nude, back rising and falling with heavy panting, soft ass still slightly raised, the sheets beneath her visibly wet.
Rohan noticed the open line of sight, smirked, and casually wrapped a white towel around his waist, knotting it low on his hips. The thick outline of his cock was still clearly visible against the fabric.
He spoke to Vicky as if Rajesh were not even in the room, voice casual and slightly amused.
“Arre Vicky, saali, bahut garmi hai. Mere friend ki wife hai woh… par bohot strict aur conservative. Abhi tak teen baar cum karwa diya sirf muh aur ungliyon se. Saali nakhre karti hai, lekin body toh bilkul ready ho gayi hai.”
(Arre Vicky, damn, it’s hot. She’s my friend’s wife… but very strict and conservative. I’ve already made her cum three times with just mouth and fingers. The bitch puts on airs, but her body is completely ready.)
Rajesh’s cock throbbed so hard he had to press a hand against his thigh to hide it. The Hindi words, the casual ownership, the clear description of a strict married woman being broken open — all of it hit him like a physical blow. His own cock, barely five inches and far thinner, felt suddenly small and inadequate in comparison to the heavy length he had just seen hanging between Rohan’s muscular thighs.
Unbidden images flooded his mind: Ananya in that same position, face-down and panting, legs open, body marked and wet, while a cock twice the size of his own pushed into her. The thought made his stomach twist with shame and a dark, undeniable heat.
Vicky laughed, low and knowing, and glanced at Rajesh.
“We both know the truth, Rohan. Every married woman has sexual desire locked inside her. You only have to use her properly. Look at my office colleague here…” He tilted his head toward Rajesh. “His wife is even more beautiful and more restrained. If she were ever handled the way you just handled that woman upstairs, she would moan and cry even louder. She would soak the bed. She would forget she was ever a strict lecturer or a loyal wife.”
Rajesh’s face had gone pale, yet his cock remained painfully erect. The combination of Ananya’s still-echoing cries, the visual of Rohan’s massive cock, the casual talk of turning conservative wives into moaning sluts, and the direct comparison to his own marriage left him sitting in a thick fog of humiliation and unwanted arousal.
He could no longer concentrate on a single word of the original “meeting.” All he could do was sit there, hard and silent, while the two men spoke openly about the complete sexual breaking of married women — and while the image of his own soft, quiet Ananya being reduced to the same raw, crying state burned behind his eyes.....
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