Adultery Cuckold looses loving wife to boss

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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.

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The first encounter was with Rohan, a gym-sculpted gigolo Arjun found online. “Wear the red saree,” Arjun urged Priya that night, his voice thick with anticipation. “It drives them wild.” Priya’s jaw tightened, but she dbangd the saree over her shoulder, her reflection a stranger’s. Rohan arrived, his cocky grin and rippling chest matching the porn Arjun idolized. In their bedroom, he peeled off his shirt and yanked Priya’s saree aside. “Look at him,” Rohan sneered, nodding at Arjun as he thrust into her, his hips slamming against hers. “He can’t even get it up.” Priya gasped, her nails digging into the bed, forced to laugh as Arjun demanded. From the corner, Arjun’s eyes gleamed, his trousers tented with unspent desire. The shame twisted into thrill, mirroring the videos he’d watched. He was hooked.

Priya hated it—the degradation, the loss of herself. Her body betrayed her, responding to Rohan’s raw power, but afterward, she scrubbed his scent from her skin in the shower, her resentment simmering. She’d agreed for Arjun, but each session chipped away at her love, leaving her hollow.

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Arjun’s obsession grew fiercer, his craving for cuckoldry like a fire that wouldn’t die. He trawled online forums, booking more bulls and gigolos, each encounter grander than the last. Priya, though sickened by Arjun’s scripts—her as the cruel wife, him as the pathetic cuckold—found her body yearning for the raw power of these men, a satisfaction Arjun’s impotent efforts never gave. She screamed with pleasure at each meeting, her reluctance fading into primal need, though her heart still hoped to rekindle Arjun’s love. But Arjun pushed harder, weaving humiliation into every scene, his role shifting from mere watcher to active director. He physically guided the bulls’ penises into Priya, his hands shaking with twisted pride, and recorded close-up videos of these acts, capturing every detail to feed his fixation.

The second bull was Vikram, a giant of a man with a voice like a thunderstorm. One muggy night, their bedroom lit by a dim bulb, Vikram pinned Priya to the bed, her sari tangled around her waist. “She needs a real man,” he growled, his hands gripping her thighs. Arjun, kneeling beside them, his breath quick, took Vikram’s erect shaft in his hand, his fingers slick with nervous sweat. “Like this,” he muttered, guiding Vikram’s tip to Priya’s entrance, his touch careful as he aligned it, feeling the warmth of her body. Priya stiffened, her gasp sharp as Vikram pushed inside, Arjun’s hand lingering a moment before pulling back. Her screams filled the room, her body arching as waves of pleasure hit her. “Tell her I’m useless,” Arjun urged, his voice rough. Vikram smirked, guiding Priya’s hand to slap Arjun’s face. “Spit on him,” he ordered, and she did, her saliva hitting Arjun’s cheek as he trembled with thrill.

Arjun, bolder now, grabbed his phone, a sleek iPhone with a sharp camera, and crouched inches from Priya’s hips. He zoomed in, the lens catching Vikram’s shaft sliding into her, the slick rhythm, the flush of her skin. The video framed her curves, her parted thighs, and Vikram’s relentless thrusts, the sound capturing her moans and Vikram’s grunts. Arjun’s hands shook, the close-up raw and vivid, every detail—her tensed muscles, the glint of sweat—locked in for his secret collection. “Perfect,” he whispered, tilting the phone to catch Priya’s face, her eyes half-shut in ecstasy. Afterwards, Arjun climbed onto her, desperate to reclaim her, but Priya felt nothing—his presence like a shadow inside her, her body still alive from Vikram’s force. Later, alone, Arjun replayed the video, the close-up images sparking his arousal, the shame and thrill twisting together.

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Next was Sameer, a lean dancer with a mean streak Arjun loved. In their bedroom, the bulb flickering with shadows, Sameer tore Priya’s blouse, his lips on her neck as he positioned himself. Arjun, ever the director, knelt close, his fingers curling around Sameer’s erection, guiding it with precision to Priya’s core. “Slow,” he instructed, his voice thick, feeling the resistance as he pressed Sameer’s tip against her, then letting go as Sameer thrust forward. Priya’s screams echoed, her nails clawing the rug. “He’s nothing,” Sameer taunted, as Arjun, phone in hand, recorded the act. He angled the camera low, capturing the penetration in stark detail—the motion, the stretch, Priya’s shuddering response. The video was clinical yet intimate, Arjun zooming in on the point of entry, then panning to Priya’s face, her laughter mixing with moans as Sameer forced her to mock Arjun’s impotence. Arjun’s pulse raced, the footage a prize of his planned humiliation. When he tried to follow, his thrusts were empty, Priya’s body unresponsive, her mind lost in Sameer’s fire. Arjun saved the video to a hidden folder, its clarity haunting him in sleepless nights.

A third encounter brought Kabir, a bearded bodybuilder with a gentle front. On their balcony, the Mumbai skyline sparkling below, Kabir lifted Priya against the railing, her lehenga hitched up. Arjun, sweat on his brow, took Kabir’s shaft, his fingers steady as he guided it into Priya, his touch almost reverent. “Right there,” he murmured, ensuring perfect alignment, Priya’s moan confirming success as Kabir entered her. Her screams carried into the night, her body giving in to the rhythm. “Tell her she’s too good for me,” Arjun whispered, his voice breaking. Kabir’s taunts were softer but sharp: “He’ll never satisfy you.” Arjun, phone raised, recorded with fierce focus, the camera inches from their joined bodies. The video captured Kabir’s steady thrusts, Priya’s trembling thighs, the city lights blurring behind. He adjusted for light, the phone’s night mode sharpening every detail—her arched back, the tension in Kabir’s muscles. Arjun’s heart pounded, the footage a mirror to his porn-fueled dreams. Priya’s pleasure was clear, her body craving the intensity, but her heart ached for Arjun. She didn’t snap at him, didn’t rage; instead, she hoped these nights might fix him, bring back the man who’d charmed her at Juhu Beach. But Arjun’s attempts to make love after were futile—she felt nothing, her body still claimed by Kabir’s fire. Arjun stored the video with the others, each file a proof of his growing addiction, replayed in secret to fuel his torment.

Priya’s inner struggle deepened. She hated the scripted shame, the loss of her dignity, but her body’s betrayal was undeniable. Each encounter, heightened by Arjun’s guiding hands and prying lens, left her fulfilled in ways Arjun never could, yet she clung to love, believing she could save their marriage. Arjun, blind to her pain, saw her screams as proof of success, his videos a private vault of his twisted vision, unaware of the growing gap between them.

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The Bandra villa of Sanjay Malhotra, perched like a glass-and-marble crown above the Arabian Sea, shimmered under the Mumbai night sky. It was a fortress of ambition, its sleek lines and sprawling terraces a testament to Sanjay’s meteoric rise as the thirty-five-year-old prodigy of Visionary Ads. The advertising empire he’d built, with campaigns for global giants like Unilever and Tata, was a beacon in Mumbai’s cutthroat corporate landscape. Tonight, the villa hosted a gala to celebrate a major client win—a glittering affair of clinking glasses, fusion cuisine, and live jazz that echoed across the manicured lawns. Sanjay, the evening’s architect, had ensured every detail was flawless: a rooftop bar with panoramic views of Bandra’s twinkling skyline, caterers weaving through crowds with trays of smoked paneer tikkas and mango martinis, and invitations extended to clients, employees, and their families. The event was as much a networking coup as a celebration, Mumbai’s elite mingling under chandeliers that cast golden light on polished marble floors.

Sanjay, in a tailored navy suit that hugged his lean frame, stood near the grand staircase, his presence magnetic yet approachable. His sharp jawline, framed by neatly trimmed stubble, and deep-set eyes gave him a boyish charm tempered by authority. He was a rare figure in the industry—ethical, mentoring young talent, funding local colleges, yet fiercely driven. But beneath his polished exterior, his personal life was a quiet wreckage. His wife, Neha, thirty-four, was a shadow of the poised socialite she’d once been. Her cocaine addiction had hollowed her, her gaunt frame and jittery eyes a stark contrast to Sanjay’s vitality. Their eight-year-old son, Arhan, was safely tucked away in a London boarding college, shielded from Neha’s chaos. Sanjay’s public smile hid the strain, but tonight, Neha’s presence threatened to unravel his carefully curated image.

Arjun, a mid-level creative at Visionary Ads, saw the gala as a stage for his own desires. His wiry frame, clad in a slightly ill-fitting blazer, betrayed his middle-class roots, but his sharp mind had earned him a foothold in Sanjay’s empire. Arjun had brought Priya to the gala not for networking or pride, but to indulge his voyeurism—to watch her beauty draw eyes, to imagine her with powerful men, a fantasy born in the glow of his laptop’s illicit videos. He’d chosen her outfit with care, pulling a sheer black saree from her wardrobe, its diaphanous fabric clinging to her curves, paired with a low-cut blouse that revealed the swell of her breasts. “Wear this,” he’d urged, his voice thick with anticipation. “It’s modern, classy, perfect for the crowd.” Priya, her almond eyes narrowing, had hesitated. “It’s too revealing,” she said, her voice soft but edged with discomfort. Arjun’s pleading gaze wore her down. “Please, for me. It’ll make an impression.” Her love for him, a fragile thread woven through years of Juhu Beach walks and whispered promises, compelled her to comply. She dbangd the saree, its transparency accentuating her hips, the blouse’s cut daring under the villa’s lights, her discomfort masked by a practiced smile.

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The gala buzzed with Mumbai’s elite—ad executives in sharp suits, clients in designer kurtas, and socialites dripping in diamonds. The air carried the scent of jasmine garlands and expensive cologne, the jazz band’s saxophone weaving through laughter and clinking glasses. Priya’s entrance through the villa’s arched doorway was a quiet detonation. The saree shimmered under the chandeliers, its sheer fabric catching the light, outlining her full figure with every step. Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, her kohl-lined eyes scanning the room with a mix of apprehension and poise. The blouse, barely containing her curves, drew subtle gasps from colleagues and lingering stares from strangers. Whispers rippled through the crowd—wives adjusting their dupattas, men nudging each other, their eyes tracing her silhouette. Priya felt the weight of their gazes, her fingers tightening around her clutch, but she held her head high, her beauty a shield and a burden.

Sanjay, mid-conversation with a Unilever client near the bar, froze as Priya entered his line of sight. He stood by a marble pillar, a glass of single malt in hand, discussing market trends with practiced ease. But her presence sliced through his focus. She stood across the room, near a buffet table laden with crab cakes and saffron risotto, her saree catching the light like liquid obsidian. Her curves—hips rounded, waist cinched, breasts accentuated by the blouse’s daring cut—stirred a heat in him he hadn’t felt in years. Her almond eyes, framed by delicate lashes, held a quiet intensity, her lips parted slightly as she scanned the crowd. Sanjay’s breath caught, his fingers tightening around his glass. He is snever seen her before, not in the office’s sterile corridors or Arjun’s casual mentions of his wife. She was a vision, a contrast to Neha’s gaunt fragility, and his body responded with a primal urgency he fought to suppress.

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He forced his eyes back to the client, a balding man droning about ad budgets, and nodded, his smile tight. “Absolutely, we’ll tweak the campaign for Tier-2 cities,” he said, his voice steady, but his gaze flickered to Priya. She moved toward a group of Visionary’s junior creatives, her hips swaying subtly, the saree’s dbang teasing the skin of her midriff. Sanjay’s eyes followed, his glances quick, calculated, masked by the tilt of his head or a sip of his drink. He was cautious, acutely aware of the room’s scrutiny—Mumbai’s elite were quick to gossip, and his reputation as the ethical prodigy was a fragile shield. He adjusted his posture, shoulders squared, his smile broadening as he laughed at the client’s weak joke, ensuring no one noticed his fixation. Yet his eyes betrayed him, darting to Priya as she laughed with a colleague, her hand brushing her hair, the gesture igniting a pulse of desire in him.

Priya, unaware of Sanjay’s gaze, navigated the crowd with forced ease. She joined a cluster of wives near a floral centerpiece, their chatter about college fees and Goa vacations a dull hum. “Your saree is stunning,” one woman said, her tone laced with envy. Priya smiled, murmuring thanks, but her skin prickled under the room’s collective stare. She glanced at Arjun, who hovered near a dessert table, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and hunger. He watched her every move, his voyeuristic thrill palpable, imagining her beauty stoking the fantasies of men around her. Arjun’s intent for the night had been simple: to parade Priya, to feed his fetish by proxy, her allure a mirror to the porn he consumed. But as he scanned the room, his gaze caught Sanjay’s—a fleeting look, Sanjay’s eyes locking onto Priya before snapping back to his client, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

Arjun’s pulse quickened. He alone noticed Sanjay’s interest, the subtle shift in his boss’s demeanor. Sanjay, now speaking to a Tata executive, angled his body slightly, his eyes flicking to Priya as she sipped a mocktail, her lips grazing the glass. The glances were discreet, buried in Sanjay’s polished gestures—a turn of the head, a pause to check his watch—but Arjun, attuned to desire’s undercurrents, saw the pattern. Sanjay’s restraint was masterful, his posture impeccable, but his eyes betrayed a hunger that mirrored Arjun’s own. The realization sparked a new vision in Arjun’s mind. Until now, his cuckold fantasy had been confined to gigolos—men like Rohan or Vikram, hired for their raw physicality. But Sanjay was different: a corporate king, wealthy, respected, his power a magnet. Pairing Priya with him could elevate Arjun’s fetish to a grand scale, intertwining it with ambition. A promotion, a corner office, a leap up Visionary’s ladder—all seemed possible if Sanjay’s desire could be harnessed.

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Neha’s presence, meanwhile, was a discordant note in the gala’s elegance. She stumbled through the crowd, her skeletal frame dbangd in a garish green lehenga, her eyes bloodshot from a recent hit. Earlier, she’d snapped at a caterer, her voice shrill as she waved a manicured hand. “Do you even know who I am? This tray’s a mess!” The caterer, a young man in a crisp uniform, flinched, murmuring apologies as guests turned away, their whispers sharp. Now, Neha cornered a client’s wife near the rooftop bar, her words slurring. “My connections in Delhi, darling, they’re elite. Ministers, industrialists, you name it.” The woman, clutching a wine glass, forced a smile, her eyes darting for an escape. Neha’s arrogance, fueled by cocaine, grated on the room, her addiction a public stain on Sanjay’s image. Sanjay, catching sight of her, excused himself from the Tata executive with a smooth, “Let’s connect tomorrow,” and moved swiftly to intervene. He guided Neha to a quieter corner, his hand firm on her elbow, his face a mask of calm. “You need to rest,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. Neha shrugged him off, her brittle, but followed, her heels clicking unevenly on the marble.
Arjun seized the moment. Priya stood alone near a glass balustrade, the sea breeze tugging at her saree, her silhouette framed against the skyline. He approached, his voice low, urgent. “Come, let’s meet Sanjay. He’s been watching you.” Priya’s eyes widened, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “Watching me? Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Arjun’s smile was tight, his intent cloaked in enthusiasm. “He’s the boss, Priya. It’s good for us to make an impression.” She hesitated, her fingers smoothing her saree, but nodded, her love for Arjun overriding her discomfort. They wove through the crowd, Arjun’s hand on her back, guiding her toward Sanjay, who’d just returned from settling Neha in a guest room.

Sanjay stood near the jazz band, exchanging pleasantries with a group of clients, his smile professional but strained. As Arjun and Priya approached, his eyes flicked to her, a spark of recognition igniting before he masked it. Arjun, his voice bright, made the introduction. “Sir, this is my wife, Priya. She’s been excited to see the villa.” Priya offered a shy smile, her hands clasped, the saree’s sheen catching the light. Sanjay’s gaze lingered a fraction too long, her beauty—almond eyes, cascading hair, curves barely contained by the blouse—stirring a heat he fought to conceal. “Hi,” he said, his voice clipped, almost abrupt, as he extended a hand. His fingers brushed hers, the contact brief but electric, sending a jolt through him. Priya murmured a soft, “Hello,” her eyes meeting his before dropping, her cheeks flushing slightly.

Sanjay’s composure wavered, his desire a pulse he couldn’t ignore. He withdrew his hand quickly, his smile tightening. “Enjoy the evening,” he said, his tone polite but distant, and turned back to the clients, his posture rigid. “Sorry, we were discussing the Q3 projections,” he added, slipping away with a nod, his retreat swift to hide the flush creeping up his neck. Priya frowned, sensing the dismissal, but Arjun’s eyes gleamed. Sanjay’s brevity, his hurried exit, confirmed what Arjun had seen all night—the prodigy’s attraction, a crack in his polished facade. Arjun’s mind raced. He’d brought Priya to feed his voyeuristic thrill, to watch her beauty provoke desire in strangers. But Sanjay’s interest was an opportunity—a chance to weave his cuckold fantasy into the corporate game, to trade Priya’s allure for power and prestige.

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Over the next weeks, Arjun orchestrated moments to fan Sanjay’s attraction, each encounter calculated to deepen the prodigy’s fixation while advancing his own ambitions:





The Office Lunch: Arjun invited Priya to Visionary’s office for a team lunch, insisting she wear a fitted kurta that hugged her curves, its neckline low enough to draw eyes. The canteen buzzed with colleagues, their trays clattering as they discussed campaigns. Arjun “accidentally” left Priya alone with Sanjay in the conference room, claiming he needed to fetch files. Sanjay, reviewing a pitch deck, stumbled over his words as Priya asked about his latest ad. “It’s… bold,” he said, his eyes flicking to her neckline, the kurta’s fabric taut across her chest. Priya’s shy smile, unaware of his struggle, fueled his interest. He cleared his throat, adjusting his tie, and excused himself, but his lingering glance as he left betrayed him. Arjun, watching from the corridor, noted the flush on Sanjay’s face, his plan taking root.



The Client Meeting: Arjun arranged for Priya to drop off files during a high-stakes client meeting, choosing a saree with a plunging blouse that accentuated her cleavage. The boardroom, all glass and chrome, hummed with tension as Sanjay pitched to a pharmaceutical giant. Priya entered, her heels clicking, and leaned to hand Sanjay the papers, her pallu slipping to reveal a glimpse of skin. Sanjay’s jaw tightened, his pen pausing mid-note, but he thanked her politely, his fingers brushing hers. The spark was undeniable, his eyes following her as she left, the clients oblivious. Arjun, stationed outside, caught Sanjay’s distracted nod, his fantasy and ambition aligning.



The Charity Event: Arjun brought Priya to a Visionary-sponsored fundraiser for a local college, dressing her in a backless choli that bared her midriff, the lehenga’s dbang teasing her hips. The event, held in a Juhu banquet hall, was a swirl of donors and flashing cameras. Arjun steered Priya toward Sanjay, who was charming a group of philanthropists. Sanjay’s speech faltered as he took in her exposed skin, his voice turning husky as he complimented her elegance. “You light up the room,” he said, his eyes locked on hers before he caught himself, turning back to the donors. Arjun, lingering nearby, saw the hunger in Sanjay’s glance, his mind spinning with possibilities.



The Late-Night Call: Arjun engineered a “crisis” requiring Sanjay’s input, insisting Priya join a late-night strategy session at a Colaba café. He dressed her in a tight Western dress, its fabric clinging to her curves, her discomfort evident in her stiff posture. The café, dim with candlelight, hummed with after-hours chatter. Sanjay, arriving stressed from a client call, softened at Priya’s presence, his gaze lingering on her bare shoulders as they discussed ideas. “You’re a natural,” he said, his voice low, but he stood abruptly, claiming a call, his retreat masking his unease. Arjun watched, his pulse racing, Sanjay’s attraction a lever for his desires

[Samadhanam]

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The humid Mumbai evening clung to Arjun’s skin as he sat in his cramped office at Visionary Ads, the whir of the air conditioner barely cutting through the heat. His desk was cluttered with campaign drafts, but his mind was elsewhere—fixed on Sanjay Malhotra, his boss, and the audacious plan forming in his head. Arjun, thirty-five and restless, saw Sanjay not just as a boss but as the ultimate “bull” for his cuckold fantasy—a man of power and prestige who could elevate his twisted desires and his career in one stroke. Priya, his wife, was the key to both.
Arjun’s obsession had grown since the corporate gala at Sanjay’s Bandra villa, where Sanjay’s eyes had lingered on Priya’s curves, dbangd in a sheer black saree. Those glances, coupled with Sanjay’s subtle flirtations during orchestrated meetings—a lunch, a client drop-off, a charity event, a late-night café session—confirmed his attraction. Arjun had engineered each encounter to fan Sanjay’s desire, dressing Priya in fitted kurtas and plunging blouses, noting Sanjay’s faltering words and lingering touches. Now, Arjun was ready to cross the line: to offer Priya to Sanjay, not as a gigolo’s fleeting thrill, but as a calculated pact blending lust and ambition. The challenge was convincing Sanjay, a man of ethics, to agree—and ensuring Priya, reluctant but bound by love, complied.
Arjun chose a quiet Friday evening, after the office had emptied, to approach Sanjay. The executive floor was silent, the Mumbai skyline glittering through Sanjay’s corner office windows. Sanjay sat at his desk, reviewing a Unilever pitch, his navy blazer dbangd over the chair, his sleeves rolled up. Arjun knocked, his palms sweaty, a rehearsed speech looping in his mind. “Sir, can we talk? It’s… personal,” he said, his voice steady but laced with deference.
Sanjay looked up, his dark eyes curious but guarded. “Of course, Arjun. Come in. What’s on your mind?” He gestured to a leather chair, his tone warm, the mentor’s ease that made him beloved.
Arjun sat, his fingers drumming on his knee, choosing his words like a chess move. “Sir, I’ve always admired you—not just as a boss, but as a man. Your success, your vision… it’s inspiring. And I’ve noticed how you and Priya get along.” He paused, watching Sanjay’s face for a reaction.
Sanjay’s brow furrowed, a flicker of caution crossing his features. “Priya’s a lovely woman,” he said carefully, leaning back. “You’re lucky to have her. But what’s this about?”

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[url=https://ibb.co/Ps2H3hLx][img]https://i.ibb.co/Myz0WVvn/img-2

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Arjun leaned forward, his voice lowering, intimate. “Sir, I’ll be frank. My marriage… it’s complicated. I have… limitations, health issues that affect our intimacy. It’s been tough on Priya, and on me. I want her to be happy, fulfilled, in ways I can’t manage.” He let the words hang, his eyes locking onto Sanjay’s, gauging his response.
Sanjay’s jaw tightened, his discomfort evident. “Arjun, that’s private. I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.” He shifted, his fingers tapping the desk, a sign of unease.
Arjun pressed on, his tone earnest, almost confessional. “I know it sounds strange, sir, but hear me out. I’ve seen how Priya lights up around you—your conversations, your respect for her. She admires you, and I think… I think you feel something for her too.” He raised a hand, forestalling Sanjay’s protest. “I’m not accusing you. I’m offering something. A way for Priya to find joy, and for us to stay close as a couple. And, sir, I believe it could benefit us all.”
Sanjay’s eyes narrowed, his voice sharp. “Arjun, are you suggesting what I think you are? That’s… inappropriate. I’m married, and so are you. This isn’t how things work.” He stood, pacing to the window, the city lights reflecting his unease.
Arjun rose, his voice soft but insistent, a salesman pitching a deal. “Sir, please, just listen. Neha… everyone knows she’s struggling. You’re under pressure, carrying Visionary, your family, alone. You deserve something for yourself, a moment of relief. Priya could be that for you—a woman who respects you, who’s drawn to you. I’m not asking for an affair. I’m suggesting one night, discreet, with my blessing. No strings, no complications.”
Sanjay turned, his face a mix of shock and intrigue. “You’re serious? You’d let your wife… with me? Why, Arjun? What’s in it for you?” His tone was skeptical, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of temptation, Priya’s image—her almond eyes, her curves—lingering in his mind.
Arjun seized the opening, his voice a blend of vulnerability and ambition. “For Priya, it’s happiness, something I can’t give her. For me, it’s knowing she’s with someone worthy, not some stranger. And, sir, I won’t lie—your mentorship means everything. I’ve risen here because of you. A closer bond, even through this, could open doors for me at Visionary. I’m not asking for favours, just… mutual understanding. We both gain—Priya’s joy, your relief, my growth.”

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Sanjay sat, his fingers steepled, processing the audacity. “This is madness, Arjun. If anyone found out, it’d ruin us—my reputation, your career, Priya’s honour. And Neha…” He trailed off, his marriage a raw wound.
Arjun leaned closer, his voice a whisper, conspiratorial. “No one will know, sir. I’ve thought it through. Your bungalow, the one outside the city—private, secluded. One evening, no traces. I’ll handle Priya, ensure she’s willing. She loves me; she’ll do it for us. And I’ll make sure it’s safe—condoms, discretion. You’re not betraying anyone, sir. You’re just… living, for once.”
Sanjay’s resolve wavered, his mind torn between ethics and desire. Priya’s beauty, her warmth during their chats, had stirred him, a contrast to Neha’s chaos. Arjun’s offer, twisted yet tempting, dangled relief from his burdens. “If I agree,” he said slowly, “it’s one time. And Priya must consent fully. I won’t force anything. And this stays between us—forever.”
Arjun nodded, relief flooding him. “Absolutely, sir. I’ll arrange everything. Thank you for trusting me.” He extended a hand, which Sanjay shook, a pact sealed in the dim office, Mumbai’s skyline a silent witness.

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Back in their flat, the ceiling fan creaked, the air thick with jasmine from Priya’s hair oil. Priya, thirty-two, stood by the chipped mirror, brushing her hair, her crimson nightgown accentuating her curves. Arjun approached, his heart pounding, knowing her reluctance could unravel his plan. “Priya, we need to talk,” he said, his voice gentle but firm, sitting on the bed.

She turned, her almond eyes wary. “What now, Arjun? Another gigolo?” Her tone was sharp, her patience worn thin by Rohan, Vikram, Sameer, and Kabir—the bulls who’d left her body sated but her heart hollow.

He took her hand, his touch soft, his eyes pleading. “Not a gigolo. Sanjay. My boss. He’s different—powerful, respected, not like those men. I’ve seen how he looks at you, how you smile with him. One night, at his bungalow, could change everything—for us, for my career.”

Priya yanked her hand back, her face twisting in disgust. “You’re selling me now? To your boss? For a promotion?” Her voice rose, anger flaring. “I did this for you, Arjun—for your fantasy, to save our marriage. But this? It’s too much.”

Arjun knelt before her, his voice breaking, a performance of desperation. “Please, Priya, it’s not selling. It’s for us. My impotence… it’s killing me, knowing I can’t satisfy you. Sanjay can, and he’s worthy—not some cheap bull. And yes, it’ll help me at work—a raise, a better life for us. I love you. I’m begging you, one last time, to keep us alive.”

Priya’s eyes welled, her love for Arjun—a fading flame—clashing with her revulsion. She remembered their Juhu Beach walks, his wit, their vows. His pain, his shame, tugged at her. “Fine,” she whispered, her voice heavy. “One night. But this is the last, Arjun. No more.” She turned away, her reflection in the mirror a stranger’s, her consent a sacrifice.

Arjun’s relief was tinged with guilt, but his fantasy and ambition surged. He handed her a pack of condoms, his voice firm. “Make sure he uses these. It’s important.” Priya nodded, her jaw tight, dreading the night ahead.

[vaali10946]

Arjun planned the encounter with precision, choosing Sanjay’s outskirts bungalow—a secluded retreat framed by mango groves, far from Mumbai’s prying eyes. He suggested Sanjay host a “private meeting” to discuss a campaign, a pretext for intimacy. He texted Sanjay, polite but clear: “Sir, I’m grateful for your interest in Priya. If this proceeds, please use condoms for safety. Thank you for your understanding.” Sanjay replied, “Of course, Arjun. I respect your wishes,” his tone formal, sealing their pact.

On the evening, Arjun drove Priya to the bungalow, the car’s silence heavy. Her navy saree, chosen by him, clung to her curves, its elegance a nod to Sanjay’s taste. Priya’s face was a mask, her hands twisting the saree’s edge. At the gate, Sanjay greeted them, his linen shirt crisp, his eyes hesitant but warm. “You don’t have to—” he began, his voice soft, but Arjun cut in, smooth as a salesman. “She wants this, sir. It’s for all of us.” He handed Sanjay another condom pack, a silent reminder, then added, “I’ll wait nearby. Call when you’re done.” He drove off, promising to return, but his true plan was to witness the encounter, his cuckold fantasy craving visual proof.

[vaali10946]

Arjun parked a kilometre away, his heart racing, and crept back to the bungalow under the cover of dusk. The mango groves rustled, the air thick with anticipation. He tested every angle to see inside, his phone ready to record, as he had with the gigolos. He slunk through the garden, peering through mango trees, but the curtains were drawn, heavy brocade blocking his view. He circled to the side, hoping for a gap in the shutters, but the windows were frosted, revealing only shadows. Desperate, he climbed a low wall, straining to glimpse through a skylight, but the angle was wrong, the glass too high. Frustration gnawed at him—his fantasy demanded visuals, like the close-up videos of Vikram, Sameer, and Kabir.

Finally, he pressed his ear to the outer wall near the bedroom, his breath shallow, the stone cool against his cheek. Then he heard it—Priya’s screams, raw and unrestrained, unlike anything with the gigolos. Her moans were deeper, more guttural, laced with a passion that pierced him. Sanjay’s groans followed, low and rhythmic, a counterpoint to Priya’s cries. The sounds painted a vivid picture he couldn’t see: Priya’s body arching, Sanjay’s hands on her hips, their intimacy unguarded. The intensity was new, a surrender the gigolos never elicited, and it twisted Arjun’s arousal with envy. He gripped the wall, his phone useless, the absence of visuals a torment. Priya’s passion was for Sanjay, not him, and he couldn’t capture it.

[vaali10946]

Inside, Sanjay was tender, honouring Arjun’s request. The bedroom, lit by soft lamps, smelled of sandalwood, its four-poster bed dbangd in white linen. He offered Priya a glass of wine, his voice gentle. “We don’t have to do this, Priya. You can leave, no questions asked.” His eyes searched hers, seeking consent, his ethics warring with desire.

Priya, her saree shimmering, took a sip, her voice steady but soft. “Arjun wants this. And… I trust you.” Her words were a lie to herself, her love for Arjun pushing her forward. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his arm, a signal.

Sanjay’s restraint faltered. He set the glass down, his hands finding her waist, sliding the saree’s pallu off her shoulder. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, kissing her neck, his lips warm. He slipped on a condom, his movements careful, and guided her to the bed, her blouse unhooked, her saree pooling on the floor. When he entered her, it was slow, deliberate, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered her name. Priya tensed, then shivered, her body arching, her moans escalating into screams that echoed beyond the walls. Sanjay’s rhythm quickened, their bodies syncing, her nails digging into his back. The intimacy overwhelmed her, a contrast to the gigolos’ brutality, stirring a flicker of something deeper—a connection she hadn’t expected.

[vaali10946]

Arjun, outside, lingered until the sounds faded, his body trembling with unspent desire and frustration. He returned to his car, the drive back a blur, the bungalow’s walls mocking his failure to see or record. When he picked Priya up, her face was flushed, her saree slightly askew. “How was it?” he asked, his voice eager, desperate for details.

“He was gentle,” she muttered, avoiding his eyes, her voice clipped. Arjun pressed, hungry for the scene he’d missed, but her silence was a wall. “Did he use the condom?” he asked, his tone sharp. “Yes,” she lied, nodding, her guilt buried. In truth, Sanjay had, but her detachment stung Arjun, her passion reserved for another.

The next week, Sanjay called Arjun to his office. “Your ideas for the Unilever pitch were solid,” he said, his tone warm, professional. “I’m promoting you to senior creative.” Arjun’s salary doubled, his team expanded, his office moved to the executive floor—a direct result of Sanjay’s favour, tied to Priya. The career boost validated Arjun’s gambit, but the bungalow’s sounds haunted him, a scene he couldn’t capture. His fantasy, now tethered to Sanjay’s power, demanded more, even as Priya’s heart slipped further away.