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.