Adultery Cuckold stories by Rupakpolo

[Rupakpolo1]

I want to start this thread to write cuckold stories. Stories will be either based on mom cuckold or wife cuckold or cheating wife. Can you please share some unique story concept on which the stories can be written.

[shrujay123]

Try wife cuckold story https://xossipy.com/thread-8362.html

[Rupakpolo1]

Try wife cuckold story https://xossipy.com/thread-8362.html

Ok

[Rupakpolo1]

I am starting a wife cuckold story. If the reader finds the story unpleasant. I will stop it.

[Rupakpolo1]

Story-1

Episode-1

"Almost there," I called out to Javed, my phone clamped tightly to my ear. The car's engine hummed as I navigated the unfamiliar streets of a quiet, suburban neighborhood in the outskirts of Manchester. Bidisha, my wife, sat next to me, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, her eyes darting to the GPS on the dashboard.

"Good," Javed's voice crackled over the speakerphone. "Make sure Bidisha's wearing that bridal saree I told her about."

My heart skipped a beat. The plan was in motion, and there was no turning back now. The very thought of my beautiful Bengali wife dressed in that crimson and gold silk, her hair adorned with fresh jasmine, sent a peculiar mix of excitement and dread coursing through me. It was the kind of garment reserved for the most special of occasions, and tonight was definitely going to be one for the books.

Bidisha shot me a nervous smile, her dark eyes glistening in the dim car light. She knew what was expected of her, and she'd agreed to it all. It was like watching a silent film play out across her features—fear, anticipation, and a hint of something else, something darker, that I hadn't seen before. Her hand found mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. We'd been married for a decade, but this is the first time my wife bidisha will have two cocks inside her.

The house was a nondescript semi-detached, a stark contrast to the opulence I'd imagined for the kind of rendezvous Javed had described. As we approached the door, my heart hammered against my ribs. Javed had assured me his friend was a connoisseur, that he'd appreciate the beauty of a Bengali wife like Bidisha. And now, she was dressed to impress, in a stunning crimson and gold bridal saree that accentuated her curves in all the right ways.

Flashback to the first time we met Javed—it was a typical Sunday afternoon in the sprawling shopping center downtown. Our son had been playing hide and seek among the clothes racks, his laughter echoing through the air. And then, the unthinkable—we lost him. Panic set in, a cold sweat breaking out across my brow as we frantically searched the crowded aisles. Bidisha's eyes were wide with fear, her voice shaking as she called out for our little one. And then, like a guardian angel, Javed appeared, our son clutching his hand, his grin wide and comforting.

Javed was a man of formidable stature, his muscles straining against the fabric of his tight t-shirt, his eyes dark and intense. I could feel the power radiating from him, his very presence commanding attention. He'd looked at Bidisha that day, and I'd noticed something in his gaze—a hunger, a craving that sent a peculiar shiver down my spine. But I'd brushed it off as mere admiration. After all, she was a stunning woman, with her smooth fair skin and those deep brown eyes that could melt even the coldest of hearts.

"Thank you so much," I'd said, relief flooding my voice as I took our son's hand. "We really appreciate your help."

Javed's smile grew broader. "It was nothing, truly," he replied, his English accent hinting at his west punjab heritage. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Javed. I own a restaurant just a few streets over."

Bidisha's grip on my arm tightened, her eyes still searching for our son. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Javed nodded, his gaze lingering on my wife. "Please, come visit my restaurant sometime. It's called 'Shahi Mahal'. You'll find the best curries in town there," he said, handing me a business card with a flourish.

Bidisha had never warmed up to the idea of Javed. Something about him made her uncomfortable, a tension that had become palpable in the air between us. And so, despite his repeated invitations, we never found ourselves at 'Shahi Mahal'. Time had marched on, our lives filling with the mundane rhythms of work and parenthood. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

It was a busy Saturday, the mall teeming with shoppers. Our son had begged us for a new game, and we'd finally caved, promising to treat him if he behaved. As we turned the corner, there was Javed, his family in tow. His wife was a healthy woman with a gentle smile, dressed modestly in a veil that matched her long, flowing abaya. Three young boys and a girl, probably around seven or eight, trailed behind her. They looked so much like him—his strong features softened by their youthful innocence.

My heart raced as our eyes met. He looked surprised but delighted to see us. "Hey “ he called out, waving a beefy hand. We approached awkwardly, our son hiding behind my wife's legs. He took in Bidisha's nervous petite posture and my forced smile, and his own grin grew wider, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth. "I was just telling my wife about the lovely couple I helped out that one time," he said, slapping me on the back.

His wife offered a tentative smile, her eyes darting from me to Bidisha and back again. The children stared with innocent curiosity. Javed leaned closer, his cologne a heady mix of musk and spice. "I see you never made it to my restaurant," he said, his tone light but with an underlying edge that sent a chill down my spine. "It's a shame. I had something special in mind for you."

Bidisha's hand tightened around my arm, and I could feel her body tense up. She'd never liked Javed, not from that first encounter in the mall. There was something about him that made her skin crawl, a sense of danger she couldn't quite articulate. But now, here we were, face to face with him again, and I could see the wheels turning in her head as she processed the implications of his words.

"Maybe we could come by next week?" I suggested, trying to keep the conversation light.

Javed's eyes lit up. "That would be excellent," he said, his smile never wavering. "In fact, why don't I send over some takeout tonight? A little taste of what you've been missing," he winked.

Bidisha's eyes searched mine, looking for a hint of what she already knew I was thinking. But I just nodded, playing along. "That's very kind of you, Javed. What's your address?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

Javed's wife stepped forward, her smile warm but her eyes calculating. "Oh, it's no trouble at all. We live quite close," she said, her accent lilting and musical. "But I'd much rather know where you live, so I can send one of our guys sending delivery to your house”

The rest of the encounter was a blur. We exchanged numbers, and she promised to send the address over. I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as we parted ways, Javed's eyes lingering on Bidisha just a moment too long during the whole conversation.

That evening, as the shadows grew long, the doorbell rang. It was Javed's delivery boy, a young man with a shy smile and a bag of steaming food. He handed over the order with a courteous nod and disappeared as quickly as he'd come. We sat down to eat, the aroma of spices filling our small apartment. Bidisha picked at her food, her appetite gone, her eyes on the TV as if she could will the images to drown out the thoughts in her head.

"What's wrong?" I asked, noticing her lack of enthusiasm.

Bidisha shrugged, her eyes never leaving the TV screen. "It's just... Javed's wife was so nice," she murmured, her voice trailing off. "But something feels... off."

I nodded, understanding her unspoken concern. The '. community in our part of town was tight-knit, often keeping to themselves. Their customs and beliefs were foreign to us, but we'd always strived to be respectful and open-minded. Yet, there was something about their behavior today that had left us both feeling unsettled.

The next week, we found ourselves standing before the gleaming sign of 'Shahi Mahal', the scent of sizzling meat and fragrant spices wafting through the air. Javed's restaurant was a far cry from the stereotypical curry houses we were used to—elegant, with dim lighting that cast a warm glow on the plush red booths. The ambiance was intimate, the walls adorned with intricate tapestries that whispered of faraway lands.

As we stepped inside, the sound of sizzling spices grew louder, melding with the low hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware. Javed himself emerged from the kitchen, his smile wide and welcoming. He enveloped us in "So good to see you!" he boomed, leading us to a table in the corner.

The meals at 'Shahi Mahal' were indeed special. The flavors danced on our tongues, a symphony of heat and sweetness that was both familiar and exotic. Javed was a masterful host, attentive without being overbearing, ensuring that our every need was met. His wife, Rubina, often joined us at the table, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she regaled us with tales of her childhood in her native place.

Over time, Bidisha and Rubina grew closer. Their friendship blossomed like a desert flower in the heat of the kitchen, sharing recipes and stories of their respective cultures. Rubina, a skilled housewife with a flair for hospitality, would sometimes invite us over for dinner at their home, and Bidisha would return the favor. Our evenings grew richer with shared laughter and the spicy aromas of their combined culinary talents.

Yet, amidst the warmth of friendship, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it. Bidisha had confided in me one night, her voice a whisper in the dark. "Rubina... she's obsessed with Javed. It's almost unhealthy, the way she worships the ground he walks on." I nodded, unsure of how to respond. I'd noticed it too—how Rubina's eyes would follow Javed around the room, how she'd hang onto his every word. But I'd dismissed it as cultural, a sign of respect in their marriage.

But the night that changed everything, I stumbled upon something I wasn't meant to see. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Bidisha was busy in the kitchen, the scent of her latest experiment—a fusion of spicy and cheesy flavors—filling the air. She'd stepped away to grab some spices, and that's when I saw it—her phone, lying on the counter, screen glowing with an unread message from Rubina. The curiosity was too much to resist.

I glanced at the screen and felt the blood drain from my face. "Why don't you let Javed take you out for a night?" it read. "You deserve it. He's got a surprise planned."

My hand trembled as I scrolled back, the conversation unfolding before my eyes like a sordid dance of temptation and rejection. The images that followed were explicit, a deluge of Javed's naked body, his cock thick and proud, the kind of size that could only be described in expletives. And there it was, the question that had been popped more than once, "Could you imagine that inside of you?"

My eyes darted to the kitchen, where Bidisha hummed to herself, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in my chest. I read her replies, a string of polite refusals, each one a delicate balancing act of friendship and discomfort. "No, thank you," she'd typed, "Vikram is more than enough for me." But the more I scrolled, the more it dawned on me—Rubina wasn't just sharing a fleeting infatuation. She was pushing a boundary, and the size of Javed's member was just the wedge.

The thought of my petite, beautiful wife getting filled up by that monster cock sent a rush of heat through me, my own erection straining against my pants. It was a forbidden excitement, one that made my heart race and my palms sweat. I knew I shouldn't be reading these messages, but I couldn't look away. The images of Javed, his dark skin slick with oil, his cock jutting out like a weapon of seduction, filled my mind, and I couldn't help but imagine it sliding into Bidisha's tight pussy.

In our ten years of marriage, we'd never discussed the size of a man's member, but I'd always known Bidisha had a fascination with the idea of being taken by a larger-than-average lover. We'd watched porn together, her eyes glued to the screen as the men on the display took women with an enthusiasm that sometimes made me feel inadequate. But it was just a fantasy, a harmless way to spice things up in the bedroom, or so I'd thought. Now, it seemed like reality was knocking on our door, and I wasn't sure if I could keep it out much longer.

That night, as our son finally drifted off to sleep, I approached Bidisha, who was curled up on the couch with a book. She looked up at me with those dark, expressive eyes, her features softened by the glow of the reading lamp. "Hey," she said, setting her book aside.

I took a deep breath, my heart racing like a wild stallion. "We need to talk," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Bidisha looked at me quizzically. "Is everything okay?" she asked, setting her book aside.

I took a deep breath and sat down next to her, my heart thumping in my chest. "It's just... we haven't been... intimate lately," I said, my voice cracking.

Bidisha's eyes searched mine, and she nodded solemnly. "I know," she whispered, reaching out to stroke my cheek. "It's the stress, isn't it?"

Her voice was soothing, a gentle caress against the turmoil that roiled inside me. I swallowed hard, my mind racing with the words I wanted to say, the accusations I wanted to hurl at her for the secret messages, for the images of Javed's cock that I knew had been seared into her mind. But instead, I took her hand in mine, feeling the warmth of her skin, the delicate bones beneath. "It's not just that," I confessed, my voice thick with emotion. "I think we need to... spice things up a bit."

Bidisha's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice tentative.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my tone light. "Just... I mean, it's been a while, right?" I said, avoiding eye contact. "Do you miss it?"

Bidisha's eyes searched my face, the question hanging in the air between us like a fine mist. She sat up straighter, her hand still resting on my cheek. "Miss it?" she echoed, a hint of surprise in her voice. "Vikram, we're married. We have a son. Sex isn't just about... desire. It's about connection, love."

I nodded, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. I knew she was right, but the images of Javed's cock kept playing in my head like a pornographic reel on repeat. "But what if we did something... different?" I ventured, my voice tentative.

Bidisha leaned in, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?" she asked, her eyes searching mine.

"Your chats with Rubina," I began, my voice steady despite the tumult in my chest. "The ones about Javed... I saw them."

Bidisha's hand froze mid-air, the warmth of her touch vanishing from my cheek. Her eyes grew wide, and she pulled her hand back as if I'd burned her. "Vikram," she breathed, the color draining from her face. "I can explain."

But I held up my hand, stopping her before she could speak another word. "It's okay," I said, my voice calm, almost soothing. "I know you didn't cheat. But you're curious, aren't you?"

[masti.bhai]

Excellent story line . Please continue