Adultery Cuckold looses loving husband to boss

[vaali10946]

The Mumbai flat was a humid cocoon, the ceiling fan creaking as it spun above Arjun and Priya’s cramped bedroom. The air smelled of monsoon damp and jasmine from Priya’s hair oil. At thirty-two, Priya stood before a chipped mirror, her fingers tracing the edge of a crimson saree that clung to her full hips. Her beauty was undeniable—almond eyes framed by kohl, a cascade of dark hair, and a body that curved like the shores of Marine Drive. Arjun, thirty-five, slouched in a worn armchair, his eyes fixed on her with a hunger he couldn’t fulfill. His impotence, a silent specter, had haunted their marriage for three years, a fracture that widened with every failed night.

Arjun’s obsession began in the flickering glow of his laptop, late nights when Priya slept. After his diagnosis—erectile dysfunction, the doctor had said, prescribing pills that didn’t work—Arjun turned to pornography to escape his shame. At first, it was standard fare, but algorithms led him deeper, to niche corners of the internet where men watched their wives with other men. Cuckold videos captivated him: powerful “bulls” claiming women while their husbands watched, humiliated yet aroused. The scenarios felt raw, primal, but also oddly glamorous—set in sleek penthouses or European villas, the men articulate, the women radiant. To Arjun, cuckoldry wasn’t just a fetish; it was a high-class lifestyle, a secret society of bold couples who transcended conventional marriage. He imagined himself and Priya as that couple, their love elevated by this daring act.

He started dropping hints, his voice casual but eyes gleaming. “Some men find it thrilling,” he’d say over dinner, describing a “hypothetical” couple. Priya, stirring dal in their tiny kitchen, frowned but listened. She loved Arjun fiercely—their courtship had been a whirlwind of late-night walks along Juhu Beach, his witty ad campaigns winning her heart. His impotence hadn’t dimmed her devotion; she blamed herself, wondering if her desirability had waned. When Arjun finally confessed his fantasy, his face flushed with vulnerability, Priya’s heart ached. “It could bring us closer,” he trembled, “a way to keep our spark alive.” She was skeptical, her stomach churning at the thought of strangers in their bed. But his desperation—his fear of losing her—gnawed at her. “If it’s what you need,” she said softly, “I’ll try.” Her consent was a sacrifice, rooted in love, not desire.