Yesterday, 09:35 AM
Rajesh lay awake in the dark long after Ananya had fallen asleep against his chest.
His mind had reached a full peak stage. Every thought circled the same impossible idea: how to convince his soft, traditional wife to accept a special treat from Vicky. How the two men would use her—slow at first, then deeper, harder—until she made the same loud, broken sounds he had heard two weeks earlier in the villa. That night he had sat downstairs with files in his lap while someone’s traditional housewife cried out under Rohan and Vicky’s thick cocks. The walls had carried every moan, every wet slap, every helpless cry. His own cock had stayed rock-hard the entire time.
Now the same fantasy wore Ananya’s face.
He saw her on this very bed, the one Vicky and Rohan had already claimed with words. Her saree gone. Soft thighs spread. Vicky holding her open while Rohan pushed inside. The first stretch making her gasp. Then the rhythm building until her voice rose higher and higher—the same high, continuous moans that had once belonged to another man’s wife—until the whole house echoed with the sound of his decent, shy Ananya being pleasured in ways his own small cock could never manage.
His hand had already closed around himself. The thick length stood at a full ninety degrees, heavy and leaking, while the filthy pictures played behind his closed eyes. He stroked slowly, imagining the exact moment her eyes would glaze, the exact pitch her voice would reach when she came on a cock that lasted longer than five minutes.
A soft shift of the mattress.
Ananya’s eyes opened.
She saw his hand moving on his hard cock and froze for a second, shocked.
“Hey… Rajesh…?”
He jerked his hand away as if burned, face flooding with heat.
“Nothing… just… by seeing you my cock got hard…”
Before she could answer he rolled toward her, pulling her close, mouth finding her neck, hands already pushing the nightgown up. This time there was no long teasing. He was too far gone. He kissed her breasts, spread her thighs, and pushed into her wet heat with a single thrust. Ananya’s soft moan rose against his ear as he began to move—fast, almost desperate—chasing the pleasure that was already racing ahead of him.
Five minutes.
That was all.
His small cock pulsed hard and he spilled inside her with a choked groan while she was still climbing. The same sharp disappointment flickered across her face for a heartbeat, then vanished. She said nothing negative. She only lay still beneath him, breathing, while he stayed buried in her, ashamed and soft.
Silence stretched.
Ananya’s fingers brushed his cheek.
“Why are you sitting silent… without a word?”
Rajesh’s throat worked. The apology sat heavy on his tongue—sorry I cannot last, sorry I cannot satisfy you the way those men could, sorry the only time I stay hard is when I imagine them taking you. He could not speak any of it.
Ananya’s voice stayed gentle.
“Rajesh… life is not only sex. It is a relationship between wife and husband. So why do you bother if you fuck only… I won’t be happy? It’s care. You care for me a lot. So I am a so-happy wife… and I am fortunately lucky to have such a good husband.”
She pulled him down into a soft hug, her full breasts pressing against his chest, her arms wrapping around his back. The warmth of her body, the quiet sincerity in her words, the complete absence of blame—everything should have soothed him.
Instead the cuckold hunger only burned hotter.
He held her tightly, face buried in her hair, cock already twitching again with fresh, shameful life at the thought of the proposal he still could not voice. The words pressed against his teeth—I want them to take you, I want to hear you moan the way that other wife moaned, I want to watch you come on cocks that can actually last—but they stayed locked inside.
Ananya stroked his back, believing the hug was only comfort.
Rajesh closed his eyes and let the fantasy rewrite itself once more: his traditional wife on this same bed, legs open for Vicky and Rohan, moaning loud enough to fill the house while he listened from the doorway, hard and helpless and finally satisfied in the only way that now seemed possible.
The pure-husband guilt was still there.
But the darker mind was winning.
His mind had reached a full peak stage. Every thought circled the same impossible idea: how to convince his soft, traditional wife to accept a special treat from Vicky. How the two men would use her—slow at first, then deeper, harder—until she made the same loud, broken sounds he had heard two weeks earlier in the villa. That night he had sat downstairs with files in his lap while someone’s traditional housewife cried out under Rohan and Vicky’s thick cocks. The walls had carried every moan, every wet slap, every helpless cry. His own cock had stayed rock-hard the entire time.
Now the same fantasy wore Ananya’s face.
He saw her on this very bed, the one Vicky and Rohan had already claimed with words. Her saree gone. Soft thighs spread. Vicky holding her open while Rohan pushed inside. The first stretch making her gasp. Then the rhythm building until her voice rose higher and higher—the same high, continuous moans that had once belonged to another man’s wife—until the whole house echoed with the sound of his decent, shy Ananya being pleasured in ways his own small cock could never manage.
His hand had already closed around himself. The thick length stood at a full ninety degrees, heavy and leaking, while the filthy pictures played behind his closed eyes. He stroked slowly, imagining the exact moment her eyes would glaze, the exact pitch her voice would reach when she came on a cock that lasted longer than five minutes.
A soft shift of the mattress.
Ananya’s eyes opened.
She saw his hand moving on his hard cock and froze for a second, shocked.
“Hey… Rajesh…?”
He jerked his hand away as if burned, face flooding with heat.
“Nothing… just… by seeing you my cock got hard…”
Before she could answer he rolled toward her, pulling her close, mouth finding her neck, hands already pushing the nightgown up. This time there was no long teasing. He was too far gone. He kissed her breasts, spread her thighs, and pushed into her wet heat with a single thrust. Ananya’s soft moan rose against his ear as he began to move—fast, almost desperate—chasing the pleasure that was already racing ahead of him.
Five minutes.
That was all.
His small cock pulsed hard and he spilled inside her with a choked groan while she was still climbing. The same sharp disappointment flickered across her face for a heartbeat, then vanished. She said nothing negative. She only lay still beneath him, breathing, while he stayed buried in her, ashamed and soft.
Silence stretched.
Ananya’s fingers brushed his cheek.
“Why are you sitting silent… without a word?”
Rajesh’s throat worked. The apology sat heavy on his tongue—sorry I cannot last, sorry I cannot satisfy you the way those men could, sorry the only time I stay hard is when I imagine them taking you. He could not speak any of it.
Ananya’s voice stayed gentle.
“Rajesh… life is not only sex. It is a relationship between wife and husband. So why do you bother if you fuck only… I won’t be happy? It’s care. You care for me a lot. So I am a so-happy wife… and I am fortunately lucky to have such a good husband.”
She pulled him down into a soft hug, her full breasts pressing against his chest, her arms wrapping around his back. The warmth of her body, the quiet sincerity in her words, the complete absence of blame—everything should have soothed him.
Instead the cuckold hunger only burned hotter.
He held her tightly, face buried in her hair, cock already twitching again with fresh, shameful life at the thought of the proposal he still could not voice. The words pressed against his teeth—I want them to take you, I want to hear you moan the way that other wife moaned, I want to watch you come on cocks that can actually last—but they stayed locked inside.
Ananya stroked his back, believing the hug was only comfort.
Rajesh closed his eyes and let the fantasy rewrite itself once more: his traditional wife on this same bed, legs open for Vicky and Rohan, moaning loud enough to fill the house while he listened from the doorway, hard and helpless and finally satisfied in the only way that now seemed possible.
The pure-husband guilt was still there.
But the darker mind was winning.
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